


Underlings

by saraubs



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Bad touch - kissing wise, Basically a lot of unfun, Derogatory Language, Graphic Violence, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self Harm, unwanted kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6223762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraubs/pseuds/saraubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves, that we are underlings." </p><p>In a world where Magnus and Alec never met, Jace is dead, and Valentine won the Battle of Brocelind Plain, disobedience means death. So what happens when Alec and Magnus meet and Alec fails to carry out his sworn duty: the elimination of all Downworlders? </p><p>WARNINGS: homophobia & self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The Mortal Instruments Series belongs to Cassandra Clare. The ability to brutalize the English language belongs to me. If you're looking for light and fluffy, please reverse direction.

With his hood pulled over his head and a dagger tucked into his jeans, Alec sneaks across the damp asphalt. He clings to the shadows, slipping silently along the street like a specter; a mere five inches away from various mundies walking home from a night on the town, but completely unnoticed. He twists and turns silently, slipping through alleys and hurdling one-handed over dumpsters without displacing a single piece of trash. Not even the rats, so well attuned to the sound of predators, have the foresight to scatter at the quick brush of his footfalls. He keeps his eyes downcast and his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his ragged jeans. There is nothing but a quick glance over his shoulder every few blocks to signal that he has even the slightest concern about anyone following.

He catches the subway, cramming himself into the smallest possible space in the back of the last car. He looks up only once, when a Mundie, who he can tell has a pocketknife up one sleeve and no fucking idea how to use it, stalks into his car, full of false bravado. He pushes himself away from the wall by his fingertips, scuffing his sneakers against the vomit-and-garbage encrusted floor and raises his eyes slowly. The Mundie steps back, startled, and then obviously thinks better of his decision. Alec melts back into the shadows, awaiting his stop quietly.

The station is empty as he makes his ascent to familiar ground. The junkies loitering in the alley near his exit give him a wide berth, understanding that he's the most dangerous person to emerge from the steps that night. He walks purposefully, taking side streets with no hesitation, and comes to a stop in front of a bar, hidden between a late-night vendor and a run-down movie rental boutique. There's a low, pounding beat blaring from inside, and a haze of smoke obscures the faces of the gangly teens that hang about the front.

One of the boys – a rangy teenager who's face is a ghoulish mask of chipped teeth, sunken cheeks, and wide eyes framed by greasy black strings of hair – steps toward him, arm outstretched. "Twenty bucks a blow," he says, his voice burbling up from his throat like the croak of a toad. He grabs at Alec's arm, intending to pull him closer, but Alec traps his wrist against the side of the building.

"Don't touch me," says Alec lowly. He can feel the boy's pulse stuttering under his thumb, and he applies a bit more pressure. The boy nods his head quickly and Alec glances behind him to make sure the others are watching. Then he lets go, letting the boy fall to the ground unaided.

Inside the bar, the lights are low and the music is loud, leaving very little room for polite conversation. The bar is lined with men, but there's a space at the end that no one dares occupy. Alec slides into the empty stool and pushes a twenty-dollar bill at the bartender. He picks it up immediately, black-polished nails tapping briefly against the counter, and comes back with three shots of whisky and nothing to chase. Alec tips back the shots in quick succession, savoring the burn and ignoring the way that eyes drift surreptitiously toward him to watch the slight rise and fall of his pale throat.

It takes a while for one of them to approach. He's big – bigger than Alec by at least half – and used to pushing people around. He leans against the bar, a maneuver designed to emphasize his biceps. On anyone else it may have been effective.

Alec gets up from his stool and makes his way toward the back of the bar. People move for him instinctually, though his eyes don't leave the panels of the beer-stained floor. As he rounds the corner to stake a claim in the single-stalled bathroom, he feels the weight of someone's eyes on the back of his neck. Hairs prickling and a cold dread spreading through his body, he whips he head around to seek out the source of his discomfort. His hand twitches toward his dagger, and though it looks likes a simple stretch – to relieve a cramp, perhaps – to the man accompanying him, Alec could have the dagger in someone's throat and be out of the bar in the time it would take to scream. There's a brief flash of yellow and a rustling of fabric in the direction of the unsettling stare, but after a quick shake of his head Alec finds the corner is empty.

It takes a few seconds for his new friend to follow him into the bathroom, giving him time to slip the dagger from his back pocket into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He unbuckles his pants, letting them fall to his ankles when the Mundie locks the door behind him.

"What's the rush?" he asks when he turns around. "We've only just – "

Alec silences the man with a single look. He's usually better at weeding out the chatty ones. Usually, the only ones who dare follow him back here are the ones who have something to prove, which is how he likes it. He has no time for flirting or conversation. "We're here to fuck," Alec says, spitting the word as if it burns his tongue. "So let's get on with it."

The man's eyes flash, and Alec is reassured that his instincts haven't let him down. He lets himself be pressed against the cold surface of the counter, his breath coming in deep pants as the burly mundane presses his wrists against the wall. He pushes back with just enough force to feign belligerence and finds the pressure on his wrists doubled.

He shivers as the man's pants hit the floor, feeling the familiar rush of lust and shame as rough fingers brush along his ass.

"Get on with it," he snarls, pushing back impatiently.

The Mundie doesn't have to be told twice, and drives into him with enough force to slam Alec back against the wall. Alec hisses at the burn, and the man chokes out a laugh.

"Like that, do you? You little fucking freak." He picks up the pace and Alec can feel the cool tip of his dagger pressing into the delicate skin of his palm. The pain is bright and soothing, and the weapon reassures him, even though he knows he wouldn't need it if this guy tried to take things too far.

The sex is vile and exactly as expected: rushed, unsatisfying, and over in a matter of minutes. Though Alec is still hard, he hauls of up his pants immediately, watching with distaste as the mundane ties of the condom and throws it in the garbage. He feels the familiar revulsion uncoiling in the pit of his stomach, and fights the urge to be sick. He flicks his dagger back into his pants too fast for the mundane to know what's happening, and hauls up his sleeves so that he can splash some water on his face.

"Nice tattoos," the man says. Alec can't tell if he's serious or not, so he lets the comment slide.

The man reaches out and grabs Alec's wrist. "Some kind of tribal shit, or something?" He looks curious and is completely unaware of how close he is to being throw through the wall.

"Or something," Alec mutters, drying his hands quickly in his jeans.

"Well then what do they mean?" The man's breath smells strongly of cheap beer and cigarettes and Alec is sure that he's going to be sick.

"They don't mean anything," Alec says, yanking his sleeves down and raising his hood once again in preparation for his trek back to the Institute. "Not anymore."


	2. Chapter Two

It isn't hard to sneak back into the Institute undetected. The only footsteps that prowl the halls this late are those of Church, and he barely has time to pause and hiss at Alec, so intense is his drive to rub up against every piece of furniture in the entire building before the sun rises. The visiting Shadowhunters always take rooms furthest away from Alec and his mother, as if they can convince themselves through sheer physical separation and force of will that the Lightwoods have fallen from existence.

He walks through the drafty corridors without pause, eyes straight ahead and hands still jammed into his pockets. He speeds up as he reaches the far end of the hallway, zipping past the three rooms that used to be occupied by other members of the Lightwood family with his eyes locked firmly on the floor. For the first few weeks he had walked right into one of his sibling's bedrooms, halfway through a sentence before he realized that they were gone. It was like a cruel cosmic joke every time he would open Jace's door to ask him to go train, only to have the cold tendrils of his absence rush out from the parabatai rune that served as a constant reminder of what he'd lost. It had taken time to seize that natural inclination and snuff it out, but as with all things, it had eventually faded, leaving only numbness. Leaving yet another piece of himself that Alec cannot feel.

He strips out of his dirty clothes and throws them into the corner. His boxers, which he holds as far away from his body as possible, he tosses into the sink and soaks with scalding water before climbing into bed.

Lying there staring at the ceiling provides an opportunity for the grim reality of what he's done to finally surface. It happens like this every time: each second of his night settles over him like dust, accumulating until he feels suffocated by the weight of his own deviance. He fights against the urge to shower; the noise will almost certainly wake his mother. The images of dirty floors and scuffed sneakers, and the sickly slapping sound of flesh against flesh overwhelm him, as bright and clear as if it was happening all over again. Cursing his Mnemosyne rune, he rolls onto his stomach, burying his head into his pillow. He breathes in small, short gasps, trying to block the new images that are cropping up: two guys about his age that he'd seen grinding against each other in the corner; a smooth strip of skin as a thin, black-haired man had bent over the bar; the rush of desire he had felt when the mundane's fingers had brushed along his ass. His erection is back and it takes all his strength not to rut into his bed like a fucking animal.

He barely has enough time to get to the toilet before he loses everything he ate that night. His throat burns as he retches and hot tears leak from the corners of his eyes, but he manages, against the screaming protests of his body, to stay quiet. The vomiting seems to zap him of what little body heat he has left, and when he returns to bed he's shaking hard enough to rattle the headboard.

Panic slices through his chest razor sharp. What would his mother think, if she found him in his bed, shaking like an infant with cum-stained boxers in his sink and the musky smell of the burly mundane still clinging to his skin? With a shaking hand he reaches down to the floor to pull up his discarded jeans, groping around the pockets for his steele. When he finally connects with the cool surface he draws his hand under the blankets, running the pointed tip against his leg. His breathing slows a little; the familiar weight in his hand and cool brush of metal against his skin is better than any security blanket. He draws the tip up to the inside of his leg, and with a small exhale, forces it downward.

The steele burns into his inner thigh, searing the skin, and with no accompanying rune, the pain is prolonged. As he drags the point downward, Alec nearly cries again in relief. The weight of the night slowly starts to ebb, the sizzle of the steele's point eclipsing the overwhelming numbness. As he pulls his hand back to start over, he finally starts to calm down, comforted by the familiar routine. His pain is bright and cold and true; it's something he can understand and deconstruct. This pain is familiar. This pain feels like absolution.

\--

Alec doesn't wake until he hears the single, sharp knock that signals his mother has just walked down the hall. He shoots out from under the sweat-soaked sheets and walks right for the shower. It takes him less than five minutes to get ready, even accounting for the dash into the kitchen to grab a bagel, so he still makes it to the meeting before any of the visiting Shadowhunters. His mother doesn't say anything; she merely gives a slight nod of her head before settling into the expressionless mask she uses to communicate with any of Valentine's lackeys.

They trickle in slowly: Bianca and Matthew, hair rumpled and clothes askew; Victor, taciturn as ever, and already equipped in full gear; and Arabelle, glaring at Bianca's high, tinkling giggles with a unmasked contempt she usually saves for Maryse's orders.

"I have located the pack," Victor says as soon as everyone has taken a seat. Maryse's eyebrows knit together and the muscles of her neck pull tight, but she doesn't say anything.

"Well then that settles it," Matthew says, stretching out in his seat like a cat. Bianca pets his hair repeatedly, not doing anything to help the ridiculous image. "We'll attack tonight."

Bianca slumps forward, cupping her chin with her hands. "Ugh, thank God. I cannot wait to get back to Idris. This place is positively dreary."

Alec's hands twitch, desperate for something to throw, so he shoves them beneath his knees. Unfortunately, his chair scrapes against the floor, drawing everyone's attention to him.

Bianca, as usual is the first to break the silence. "You're coming this time, right

Alec?"

"He's coming." Arabelle's voice is low and cold and leaves no room for argument.

Though the Lightwoods are still ostensibly in charge of the Institute, both of them know that Arabelle is really in charge of this expedition. "Valentine wants Lucian Greymark found, and we all want to get home. Everyone comes." She fishes an envelope out of her pocket, and slides it across the table at Alec, a smirk twisting the features of her beautiful face. "A letter from your sister," she says. "She's doing so well at the Academy – you would do well to follow her example."

Alec bites back a retort. He grabs the letter and thrusts it in his pocket to read later. He notices the way his mother leans toward him, her expression hungry for news about her daughter.

"What time do we leave?" he asks, wanting to spare his mother the pain of having to sit here a second longer than necessary.

"We leave at dark," Aarabelle says, pushing out her chair. She walks across the hall and out the door without another word, the sound of her heels echoing through the hall like a warning.

Bianca, Matthew, and Victor follow suit, until Alec and his mother are the only ones remaining.

"Alexander, I –"

"Forget about it, Mom," Alec says. He pulls his sleeves down, covering the marks that he had once been so proud to bear. "There's nothing we can do about it."

\--

The letter from Izzy is just like all the others: insipid and thoughtless, filled with stories of boys and clothes. In other words, it's exactly the kind of letter that most people would think Isabelle would write home, but is so far from the truth that it's laughable. Alec can picture her now, forced to lay pen to paper under the strict eyes of Valentine or whatever other sycophant presided over the classes at Alicante Academy. For the first few letters Alec had searched out some kind of code – something only he, Izzy, or Jace would know about – but he could come up with nothing. Still, as false and unsatisfying as the letters are, at least Alec knows with each one that his sister is okay. He concentrates on her small, looping cursive and feels, for the briefest of seconds, that she's actually here with him.

He spends the day in the weapons room, methodically cleaning his bow and seraph blade, and making sure all of his gear is in working order. He spends a bit of time flipping from the rafters, but almost everything about this room reminds him of something he did with Jace and Izzy, and he can only stand to walk amongst those demons for short periods of time. When Bianca and Matthew burst through the door, giggling and clearly looking to find a section of the Institute in which they haven't yet fucked, he fades away like a memory, sweeping back to his room as silently as the ghosts that haunt his memories.

\--

The six Shadowhunters slip out of the Institute as soon as they gain the cover of darkness. Alec's newly applied runes sting, but the burn provides him with the focus he needs to make it down the twisting alleys. He's at rear-point, a silver-tipped arrow already notched and ready to go, while his mother walks directly in front of him, wielding her naginata with the same easy confidence as Izzy. Her footsteps are feather-light, leaving Alec with the distinct feeling that he's not as inconspicuous as he believes during his late-night escapades. He follows the pattern of her footsteps, trying to recall the lessons she'd imparted to him over a decade ago, when he'd taken his first halting steps into this life of death and danger. Of course, back then it had been about protection, not destruction. About justice, not vengeance.

He pushes his thoughts away as Victor slowly holds up a hand at the front of the line, signaling quiet. He moves his hands this way and that, directing the other members of the team to their predetermined vantage points. Alec, more worried about covering his mother than keeping Victor safe, alters his movements slightly to keep her within sight. He can hear the low voices of the werewolf pack on the other side of the window under which he's currently crouching.

Breathing deeply, he waits for Victor's signal. He fingers the end of his arrow, the sharp tip just breaking the edge of his skin, and exhales as a trickle of blood runs down his finger. Unfortunately, one of the wolves must catch the scent, because within seconds the entire safehouse descends into chaos.

Alec drops to the ground as a large, midnight black wolf crashes through the window above his head. His arrow is flying before he's even registered the movement, and he notches and shoots three more in quick concession. Victor and Arabelle, standing back to back, are being circled by two members of the pack, and his mother is engaged in combat with a small, shaggy wolf.

Maryse dodges and ducks, but can only maintain a defensive position. Her long weapon is cumbersome in such a small space, and her seraph blade has been knocked away in all the confusion.

Propelled into action by the sound of claws ripping through his mother's gear, Alec jumps onto the ledge of the shattered window and catapults himself across the alley to an overhanging ledge. He hauls himself up and quickly gets to work raining a deluge of arrows into the alley below. As soon as a werewolf nears his mother's petite frame, another arrow is loosened. He can hear the scuffle and cry of Matthew and Bianca as they fight savagely, side by side, but he doesn't care what happens to them. He only cares that his mom walks out of this fight unharmed. He's so focused on his task that he doesn't notice the werewolf still in human form, who uses an abandoned dumpster to creep behind him.

"Alec, watch out!" his mother screams as the young girl pounces, a curved dagger in one hand. Alec twists, and though the knife catches his shoulder, the cut is superficial. He uses his momentum to twist the knife out of the girl's hand, and then throws her over the side of the platform and on to the street below.

Somewhere, near the end of the alley, a girl screeches in anger, but Alec only sees a flash of brown, curly hair, and a shadow elongating from human to canine form, then the werewolf is out of sight. The rest of the pack has scattered, leaving only the young girl who tried to attack Alec. Aarabelle walks toward her, nostrils flaring and a falchion gripped tightly in each hand. Her dress billows around her in the breeze, and with her red lips and ethereal features she looks like an angel of vengeance.

The young werewolf whimpers as she approaches, and blood burbles up from her throat with a sickening squelching noise.

"Lucian Greymark," Ara says, kneeling down by the girl. "Where is he?"

"Fuck you, Shadowhunter scum," the girl spits, blowing flecks of blood onto Ara's porcelain skin.

Ara takes one of the falchions and drives it through the soft skin of the girl's forearm, pinning her to the pavement. Her scream of anguish rings through the alley before ending in a burbling cry. "I don't know," she says, her chest heaving with the effort of holding back tears. "He's not in New York. Hasn't been for a long time."

Ara twists the knife, smiling as the girl struggles. She places her knee in the center of the girl's chest, avoiding the blood as it bubbles up this time. "I really hope you aren't –"

Her voice is cut short as an arrow whips past, lodging itself in the girl's windpipe. There isn't even enough time for her to cough; she expires before Arabelle can finish her sentence.

"Lightwood," the Shadowhunter snarls, her eyes flashing in the dim light provided by a nearby streetlamp.

"She had a knife," Alec says, pointing to the weapon lying by the werewolf's outstretched hand. "And you were getting close enough for her to use it."

Victor walks up and places a hand on Ara's shoulder, squeezing gently. "The creature didn't know anything." He sheathes his own weapons and takes out his steele, ready to draw an Iratze for his angry parabatai. She glares up at Alec, and then hauls her falchion from the werewolf's arm, kicking the corpse as she does so.

Alec swings over the ledge and jogs toward to his mother, but she's already finished hastily applying her own runes. He hands her his bow and arrow, and gives her a meager excuse he knows she'd never believe, but she just nods and follows after Victor and Arabelle. Bianca and Matthew are kissing loudly against a wall, not five feet from the mangled corpse of a werewolf who doesn't look any older than seventeen. Alec balls his hands into fists and forces himself to look away. He disappears down his familiar route, hoping that they're all back in Idris where they belong when he gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. We were introduced to Alec's mindset in the last chapter and the purpose of this chapter was to give you some perspective on the Shadow world as it stands at this point in time
> 
> 2\. coming up next: MAGNUS BANE ;)
> 
> :)


	3. Chapter Three

When he catches his regular train, Alec finds a spot in the back and hastily applies a glamour. He never hides his marks completely – it would take too much time and effort – but merely makes them look a little more like mundie tattoos. He can feel the blood starting to crust along his shoulder, but he doesn't bother to do anything about it. The cut is too shallow to require an Iratze, and he doesn't really plan on taking off his jacket anyway. He just needs a few minutes – five, maybe less – to dispel the pent-up energy he's harboring, and then he can go home.

Tonight when he exits the underground, he finds the streets eerily deserted. The usual junkies and loiterers have vanished from sight, and this part of the city is quiet enough to hear the stray bits of garbage being blown along by the wind. Alec pulls his jacket a little closer and makes a beeline toward the bar.

He's only a street away when his enhanced hearing picks up a sound – the smallest rustle of footsteps – and he dodges to the side just before a silver-muzzled werewolf launches out of the darkness, snapping at the air where he had just been standing.

Alec gropes at his pocket for his dagger, only to remember he didn't bring it. He'd gone to battle armed with his bow and seraph blade, both of which his mother is now transporting back to the Institute. He uses the small space between buildings to his advantage, propelling himself over the wolf's head and landing a sharp kick to its flank before it can skid to a stop. The wolf yelps, and Alec keeps his ears trained for the sound of the rest of the pack. He can only assume that this is one of the wolves from Luke's pack, and he prays that they split up after leaving the safe house. The wolf regroups quickly, and springs at Alec once again, trying to round him into a corner like a frightened animal.

Alec grabs his stele – the only thing on his person that can substitute as a weapon – and twists out of the way as the werewolf pounces again. This time he drags the pointed end of his stele along the wolf's back, burning a long stripe into its flesh. The wolf snaps, saliva coating the back of Alec's jacket, and Alec scrambles to formulate an exit strategy. His runes, which had been applied before leaving the Institute, are starting to fade, and his strength is only going to diminish the longer this drags out. He could run – it would take less than thirty seconds to get to the bar – but he has no idea what the werewolf will do in retaliation. He can't risk dragging this fight into a building full of innocent bystanders.

The wolf paces back and forth, its teeth pulled back in a horrific snarl, but it doesn't make another move. Alec holds his stele steadily, years of practice and experience helping to keep him calm. Warm blood drips down his back from where the knife-cut has reopened, but the rush of battle stays the pain. He's contemplating taking the offensive and using the cramped space to his advantage, but the wolf steps forward and seamlessly makes the change back to his human form.

The man standing in front of him looks familiar: the large, brown eyes and stubby nose match those of the young werewolf from the alley. The one Ara was torturing.

"Recognize me, do you, Nephilim scum?" The werewolf spits out a mouthful of blood and takes a step toward Alec. "Or let me guess – all downworlders look alike to you?"

"I – I'm sorry," Alec says, gripping his stele a little tighter. In human form, the werewolf towers over him, and his arms are nearly as large as Alec's thighs. While he's confident in his hand-to-hand combat abilities, he's not entirely sure that pure brute strength won't win out in the end. He fumbles the stele behind his body, trying to find an exposed patch of skin on which to draw a new stamina rune.

Unfortunately, the downworlder must sense what he's doing, because he rushes Alec like a linebacker, sending the stele skidding across the pavement and pressing Alec against cold concrete. The werewolf's fingers spread around his throat, and though Alec doesn't give in easily, the need for oxygen soon outweighs his meager kicks. The wolf lifts him from the ground by the neck, slamming his head into the building behind him.

Alec thinks of his mother, sitting alone in her room at the Institute, waiting for him to come home, and is filled with an overpowering sense of self-loathing. She has done nothing to deserve this, to find his body mangled outside a mundie gay bar. He wonders what would kill her first: the pain or the shame?

"You're sorry?" the downworlder snarls, his hot breath spilling onto Alec's face. He has the overwhelming urge to gag, but the wolf's hand is crushing his windpipe. "Not nearly sorry enough, I'd say."

Though he doesn't look to be much older than Alec – five, maybe six years at the most – the wolf has impeccable control. He holds his free hands in front of Alec's eyes, letting his claws extend slowly outward until they're nearly two inches long and razor sharp. Alec has the energy for one last attempt at a struggle, but the werewolf merely pulls him away from the wall before slamming him backward again. His head cracks against the concrete and he can feel a warm gush of blood trickling between the open collar of his jacket and his neck. He groans, but before he can shake off the fuzziness, the wolf's other hand shoots upwards, driving the jagged claws into the soft skin of his abdomen.

Pain lances through Alec's body and the werewolf finally releases his throat, growling as he drops to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He coughs violently, and with each new paroxysm, a spurt of blood bubbles up from his throat, starting the process again. He gasps for breath, panicked about drowning in his own blood and nauseous from the blow to the head.

"She was my sister," growls the wolf, leaning down and slamming him against the ground by his shoulders. "And she did nothing to you or any of your kind."

Alec scrambles for his discarded stele, but it's too far away. He's never been afraid to die – he's been raised to be a warrior – but he doesn't want to go like this. Not in a puddle of his own blood and shaming his family in front of the entire Clave. He can imagine his father's look of disappointment at his funeral. Can imagine him assuring everyone that this is why he had stayed in Idris, rather than New York: because his son was a disappointment.

"Is this what you want?" The werewolf picks up the stele and dangles it in front of Alec's face. "Maybe I should give it to you. You can draw your little healing runes and I can take my time. Or maybe I should bring you around the corner to visit some friends? See what kinds of things they can think up for you?"

The wolf must be able to sense the change in tempo of Alec's heart, because he laughs. "I knew it!" He pulls Alec up into a sitting position, staring straight into his eyes. "Maybe I should bring you back," he says. "What do you think Valentine would want more? To kill one more downworlder or to have the satisfaction of stripping the runes from a pathetic Nephilim faggot?"

Alec tries to scream – to rage, or kick, or anything – but instead ends up vomiting blood onto the werewolf's arm. Eyes stinging with tears, he tries to calm down and not give in to the downworlder's taunting. But try as he may, he can't stop the frantic pounding of his heart. Forget his mother, his family, or Valentine. All he can think of is Jace. He's not sure if he believes in any sort of afterlife, but if there is a place – a shore or a vale or a haven – where the parabatai await their brothers, Alec would not be able to stand entering without Jace by his side. He would rather die a thousand deaths, be tortured for day on end by this sadistic werewolf than have to see the look of disappointment in Jace's eyes – to be turned away from him forever.

Enraged, he lashes out with all the strength he has remaining, and manages to drive his elbow just under the werewolf's jaw. The connection makes a dull thud, but Alec barely has time to enjoy the small victory before he's launched across the alley. The wolf draws a dagger from his pocket – good, Alec thinks fiercely, I've made him angry enough to kill me – but before he gets a chance to use it, he's interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"What's going on here?" Alec looks toward the source of the voice and sees a guy – probably mundane, looks about his age – approaching, his face drawn in confusion.

"Leave," Alec tries to say, but nothing comes up except a trickle of blood.

"Get out of here, kid," snarls the werewolf. "This doesn't concern you."

But the mundane doesn't listen. He just walks closer, neither slowing nor speeding up. He takes short, deliberate steps, and his features start to come into focus. He's tall – not as tall as the werewolf, but still taller than Alec – and has shiny black hair that frames the delicate bones of his face. He's beautiful, Alec thinks stupidly, hating himself immediately for the thought. How is it that even now, at the brink of death, that's the first thing he manages to notice? His head swims dangerously, and he fights to keep from throwing up.

The werewolf moves away from Alec, stalking across the alley toward the boy. "I told you," he says, raising his arm along with his voice, "to leave!" He swings outward, perhaps hoping to scare the newcomer into running away, but his arm stops in midair.

The newcomer's eyes flash yellow in the darkness, and Alec realizes that he's seen him before.

Evidently, the werewolf has too. "Bane," he growls. "Stay out of this."

Bane. Alec's mind fights against the impending stupor that threatens to take him under. As in Magnus Bane? Alec is sure that he must have misheard; no one has seen Magnus Bane in nearly a year. The High Warlock of Brooklyn is worth more to Valentine than perhaps any other downworlder; he'd be a fool to show himself in front of any Nephilim.

Apparently Magnus Bane – if it is indeed him – does not take orders well. With a snap of his fingers the werewolf is pinned to the wall beside Alec, unable to do anything more than spit obscenities. "He killed my sister, Bane. You save him now, and I swear I will find him! And I will end you!"

"I have no interest in personal stories," Magnus says, sounding bored. "Or useless threats. What I do have an interest in is ensuring that this street – which I happen to like – is not suddenly crawling with vengeful Nephilim."

"They wouldn't mourn him anyway," the wolf snarls. "They have no use for his kind. He's a fucking – "

Magnus snaps his fingers again and the wolf's mouth snaps shut. "I think," Magnus says, low and dangerous, "that that is quite enough out of you, Jenkins." He steps up and presses a single, long finger to the werewolf's – Jenkins' – forehead, stepping back so that the body doesn't hit him when it slumps to the ground.

He walks over to Alec, placing his hands on either side of the Shadowhunter's face. His eyes have changed and are now slit up the center, just like a cat's. "And as for you," he murmurs. "Maybe I should just leave you here to die."

Alec fights against the warmth that Magnus's touch evokes. "Why don't you?" he croaks, dragging in a ragged breath.

Magnus doesn't answer, just murmurs a few words under his breath and keeps his hands resting lightly on Alec's skin. The warmth builds and starts to radiate outward, clearing Alec's head and mending the cuts on his stomach. As his throat clears he takes in greedy gulps of air, nearly crying with the relief of finally being able to breathe.

Magnus bends over and picks of Alec's discarded stele. Then, to Alec's supreme surprise, hands it right to him. "You might want to get around to reapplying those runes," he advises.

Alec just gapes at him senselessly until Magnus throws the stele into his lap. He bends down and pokes Alec in the head. "Huh. I haven't broken one in a long time," he says to himself.

Alec flushes and pulls away from Magnus's touch. He begins hastily reapplying his runes as Magnus looks down at him, arms crossed. From his position on the ground Alec can see a thin strip of Magnus's skin and notices – with a slip of his stele and a murmured curse – that he doesn't have a navel.

It takes him a few seconds, but Alec soon feels well enough to stand. He looks at the warlock carefully, trying to compare what he's heard to what he's seeing. Trying to imagine this dark, shadowed figure as the flamboyant party-host his sister once told him about. "You're really Magnus Bane?"

Magnus twirls theatrically. "The Magnificent." He prods the werewolf with his shoe and then leans down to mutter something over the body. "And you are?"

"Alec. Alec Lightwood."

Magnus's eyes flicker back up to him quickly, but he doesn't comment.

"Why didn't you?" Alec asks, his head still a bit muddled from everything that's happened.

Magnus stands up and leans against the wall once again, looking perfectly relaxed – perhaps even a little amused. "Why didn't I what?"

"Let me die." He looks down at the werewolf's body and thinks of the arrow he shot through his sister's throat. "He was telling the truth. I did kill his sister."

Magnus shrugs. "And I was telling the truth."

Alec crosses his arms, shivering as the wind whips through his jacket. "You saved my life because you didn't want to find a new place to hang out?"

Magnus's stare is pointed. "It's a nice bar."

Alec scoffs. "It's a shithole!"

Magnus shrugs, pushing himself away from the wall. "Maybe I don't have a taste for killing," he says. "I think maybe you can understand that?"

Alec fiddles with his stele, not liking the way Magnus is edging ever closer. "You don't know anything about me," he answers.

"I wouldn't say that." Magnus grins, reaching out to run his hand down Alec's arm. He looks surprised when Alec flinches, and withdraws completely.

"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?"

To Alec's utmost embarrassment, Magnus actually laughs. When he realizes that Alec is being serious, he tries to turn his sudden outburst into a cough and fails miserably. "Well, baby Nephilim," he says. "Even if I believed that you were capable of such an act – which, I can assure you, you are not – let's just say I had an inkling that you wouldn't."

"Why? Just because you saw – just because I've. Because I'm – "

"Gay?" Magnus supplies. "Aww, kitten, no need to be modest. Last night may have been the first time you saw me, but I assure you, it's not the first night I was there." He winks and Alec catches a faint line of glitter along his eyelid.

"Fine, just because I'm…gay," Alec spits out quickly, "doesn't mean I can't hate downworlders. I could just go and sound the alarm, you know. Tell everyone that Magnus Bane is still in New York."

Magnus's cat eyes sweep over his body, and Alec feels as though he can peer right through him. It's unsettling. "What are you going to tell them? That you were on your way to your nightly hookup and ran into the High Warlock of Brooklyn? You're going to bring them back to this very alley and show them what happened. Maybe they'll think you're delirious. Maybe you _will_ be delirious." Magnus examines his nails, peering up at Alec with hooded eyes, and manages to look more menacing than Jenkins had in his wolf form. "Don't test me, little Nephilim."

Alec scowls. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of a condescending dick?"

"On the contrary. The King of Spain once told me that I was delight, and he didn't like anybody."

"Evidently, times have changed."

"Yes, well, attempted extermination of my race and all that," Magnus says, his eyes flashing. "Makes me a little cranky."

"I'm sorry," Alec says quietly. Magnus must realize that he means it, because he smiles, a little sadly. "I've lived through dozens of wars, Alec Lightwood, and I have more than a little experience recognizing what evil looks like. The Nephilim have much to be sorry for, but you're not the one who needs to apologize."

Feeling like the whole night is catching up on him, Alec slumps against the wall, his eyes burning with sudden effort of holding back tears. "I have so much to apologize for," he whispers.

When he looks up Magnus is back in disguise. His eyes are now a yellowish green, and he seems smaller, somehow. He looks frail and very young. The werewolf stirs and whimpers a little and Magnus holds out his hand. "I think it's time to go. He won't remember much about the last hour or so, but it's best not to be here when he wakes up."

Alec ignores the outstretched hand and pushes himself back up. "You shouldn't be able to do that. That glamour – I should be able to see through it."

Magnus grins and Alec's heart twinges – the gesture is so reminiscent of Jace's full-bodied glee that for a minute it's hard to breathe. "I could fill a book with all the things I _shouldn't_ be able to do," he says. "A tome, even." He reaches out and brushes his hand against Alec's cheek a second time. "Come back tomorrow," he says, close enough that Alec can feel the heat of his body. "I'll show you a couple of them."

Alec pulls back as if he's been burned. "Thank you for helping me," he says stiffly.

Magnus, old enough now to recognize a lost cause, just inclines his head and moves aside so that Alec can brush past.

Digging his nails into his palms, Alec sets off in the direction of the subway without a backward glance, ignoring the lingering heat on his face and the persistent thrumming of his traitorous heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it. I wonder how Alec is going to handle finding a guy he's actually *attracted* to? (hint: not well).
> 
> P.S. Come hang out with me on tumblr! My TMI/personal/fanfiction tumblr is: misadventurousmongooses :)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: sexual assault (someone forcing themselves on another person, but no penetrative sexual assault), violence, implied self-harm

This time, when Alec walks through the front doors of the Institute, Arabelle is waiting for him. She looks ready for bed, dressed in stretchy black pants and a tank top, but her body is practically vibrating with excess energy. Her eyes are narrowed to near slits and she looks more jackal than human. Alec doesn't miss the bulge of a knife at her side or the runes that have been freshly applied. Whatever she's waiting for, he doubts it's a simple talk.

"Arabelle," he says coldly, not breaking his stride. Unfortunately, she gets up from her perch across from the door and follows him down the hall, her heels echoing loudly throughout the silent church.

When Alec shows no sign of slowing, she reaches out and grabs him, spinning him around and pinning him to the wall.

"Ara, I am really not in the mood for this," he grinds out. He's has quite enough of people forcing themselves on him tonight, and even thoughts of keeping Izzy safe can't temper his rapidly rising rage. He traps his hands behind his legs before he can do something rash, and waits for her to get on with whatever she's been waiting to do.

She ignores him and tightens her grip, blood-red fingernails piercing his skin. "You may think that being a Lightwood protects you in some way," she hisses. "But your legacy is coming to an end, Alec." She squeezes tighter. Her white knuckles stretch over Alec's forearm and her porcelain skin is mottled with anger. "You will not make a fool of me again."

The pressure is starting to hurt, so he twists out of her grip, pulling her arm out and around her back. He means to only force her off balance, but the residual adrenaline from everything that's happened tonight makes him underestimate his own strength. He feels a sickening pop as her shoulder dislocates, and he even feels a tiny flicker of pity as she moans, obviously trying to mask the pain. Using his sympathy to her advantage, she drives one of her stilettos into his foot, easily splitting the tiny bones, and flips him to the ground as soon as he doubles over in pain.

Pinning his arms with her knees, she uses her uninjured hand to extract the dagger from her back pocket. She presses the blade to his neck, leaning down so low that he can see much more of her cleavage than he has ever wanted. His gut twists painfully in disgust; after all, knife to the throat notwithstanding, there are hordes of young Shadowhunters who would kill for this vantage point. The list of things Alec would give up to be one of them – to long for Ara's soft curves instead of a lean, hardened chest – is extensive.

"One day, you'll be away from the Institute," she snarls, pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood. "You'll be away from your mommy and in my territory, and then we'll see how confident you are with your little bow and arrow." She presses her knees down, driving the bone into soft flesh, but Alec refuses to engage. He merely stares back, his face the perfect picture of apathy.

"Where do you go?" she muses. "What do you do out there all alone? I'm sure your mother would like to know. I'm sure Valentine would like to know." She smiles and for a single, horrified second Alec is sure that she knows. She lifts the blade and slides it back in her pocket before bending down so that her face is only centimeters above Alec's. "Stay out of my way, Lightwood," she whispers just above his lips. She's so close that Alec can smell her nauseating cherry lip-gloss. "Stay out of my way or I will ruin you." She closes the distance between them, catching his lips in a violent kiss. He startles and she clamps down, drawing blood, and all Alec can do is lie there, paralyzed. When she pulls away a string of blood and spit spreads out between them. Instead of wiping it away, Ara just takes her gloss back out and smears it into her puffy lips.

 _She's crazy_ , Alec thinks as she walks away from him, cradling her injured arm. _She's absolutely fucking insane._

It's the first time Alec's ever kissed a woman, and it feels as much like a violation of his spirit as his body. He startles a hollow laugh from himself: what would Valentine or any of his followers think if Alec brought forth a charge of sexual assault against Arabelle? They'd laugh him out of Alicante. Weary and disgusted, he gets up and brushes himself off, drawing a quick Iratze on his neck so that the cut doesn't scab and raise questions. Once he's safely inside his room, he draws a rune to lock the door from the inside and then puts the stele on his bedside table. Some nights he'll bring it over to the desk or lock it in a drawer, creating as many barriers as possible. Sometimes, that's enough to fight the compulsion: knowing that he'd have to make the walk across the room. Tonight, he knows better. He knows it would be a waste of time.

Nerves frayed and stomach rolling, he retires to the bathroom, where he proceeds to run a scalding-hot shower. He scrubs at his skin viciously, peeling away layers of dirt and skin and blood, until it all mixes together into a blackish-red sludge. He watches it disappear down the drain and wishes that he could burn away the memories of the night – from the raid, to Magnus Bane, to his encounter with Ara – with the same efficacy.

\--

There's no brisk knock at his door in the morning, and when Alec finally makes his way to the kitchen, he finds his mother at the table alone, drinking a cup of coffee.

He grabs a mug for himself and settles into the seat across from her. "So where is everyone?"

"They left, first thing this morning," she says. "I wouldn't have known, except that I was getting ready to go out myself." Her face is gaunt and there are lines that didn't exist even a few short months ago. His mother, for the first time Alec can remember, looks older than her age. Her willowy figure has changed into something distressingly thin, and Alec aches to be able to provide her with some kind of comfort. Jace, Isabelle, or even Max would be much better company; it's all he can do to just hide the pieces of himself that he knows would cause her even more pain.

"Do you know who's coming next?"

His mother shakes her head slowly and takes another quiet sip. "I only know that they arrive tonight." She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but the space between them remains silent. Her gaze turns once again to the window, and Alec knows that there's no use trying to talk any longer. He grabs a muffin from a box sitting on the table and gets up to leave, nearly falling backward when his mother's hand shoots out to grab his wrist.

"Alexander," she starts, "you must – must pay more attention to your surroundings in battle. You were sloppy last night."

"I know," he whispers quietly. She releases her grip slowly, as if trying to convince herself that he's still there, and continues her silent vigil long after his footsteps fade into the distance.

\--

The new Shadowhunters are a surprise. There are only two of them this time, and they have no orders for specific raids. In fact, they don't seem to have any orders at all. The first is a doddering old man with hunched shoulders and the thickest glasses Alec has ever seen, and wouldn't last two rounds with a cocker spaniel, let alone a werewolf, and the second is a young woman, straight out of Valentine's Academy.

Unlike the previous tenants, these two seem quite keen to get to know the remaining Lightwoods. Clifton, who apparently works in the archives in Alicante, has come for a couple of weeks to sift through Hodge's old books and papers, to sort out if he was researching anything of great importance before he died. Marceline, much to Alec's dismay, seems intent on getting him to take her out on patrol, having spent most of her life in the sheltered streets of the City of Glass.

For the rest of the day it's like his shadow's had a sex change. Marceline follows him from room to room, practicing what he practices and eating what he eats and even reading as he reads. She decides to take the bedroom across from his, and when he finally manages to lose her for a blessed five minutes of privacy, she knocks tentatively on his door, asking if she can come in. Though he's sure he doesn't look thrilled to see her, she creeps into his room anyway and takes a seat near his desk.

For the first few minutes she's silent, watching him as he copies notes from a demonology text into his notebook.

"I can't believe you study in your free time," she says eventually. Her voice is soft and not at all mocking, but Alec can't help but lash out.

"Right, because being prepared to save someone's life is such a waste of time." He turns back to his book, transcribing common demon poisons and their antidotes. "There are no warlocks to run to if you get hurt," he adds brazenly. "Do you know how long you'd have to get to a silent brother if you were bitten by a Rulock demon?"

She looks at the floor, silent.

"What if it's your parabatai?" he presses angrily. "You just going to let his blood coagulate until his microvascular system is blocked and he dies right in front of you?" When she remains silent he throws the book to his floor in disgust. "You spend hours a day in that school, learning what distinguishes Shadowhunters – what makes us so superior – and you graduate so full of inflated self importance that you don't even know how to save your damn life from the creatures we were created to eliminate!" He considers storming out, just so he doesn't have to look at a living, breathing example of his people's hypocrisy, but where is he going to go? He refuses to leave this stranger alone in his room, so he just stays there, seething, and waits for her to answer.

"A warlock saved my sister once," she says quietly, still not lifting her eyes from the floor. "My parents wouldn't let me out of my room, but I could see the outline of her wings through a crack in the door. My sister had wandered off and was attacked by something – we had no idea what – and this woman just came in and worked her ass off until Kathy was all right." Her voice drops even lower and she shifts slightly in the chair, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I saw her again, a couple of months ago, the night before she was executed." She finally lifts her eyes from the floor and Alec is horrified to see that she's crying.

Alec shifts awkwardly on the bed, and is trying to find something to say when Marceline starts to speak again.

"What's it like?" Alec doesn't need her to clarify, but she does anyway. "Killing a Downworlder?"

Unsure of her motivations, but too tired to care anyway, he tells the truth. "It's horrible." What he doesn't say hangs in the air between them: It's not what I trained to do. It's not what I believe in. It's not what I wanted to become.

"I met your dad," Marceline says, breaking the awkward silence. "He said that we might get along." She glances at him through her blonde eyelashes and Alec is struck by an awful realization. Marceline is smart. She seems a little shy and she's spent nearly the whole day with her head stuck in a book. Her blue eyes are bright and he's sure that her thick blonde hair and small smile are very enticing to other guys. She also seems to share Alec's own reservations about Shadowhunter politics. In other words, she's everything Alec's father probably believes he's looking for. His father sent her here for him. He feels like he's going to be sick.

Marceline must notice, because she shuts down immediately. She gets up, ready to walk out the door, but Alec stops her. As fucked up as this is, not of it is her fault. "Wait. We can still go hunting tonight – I mean, if you want?"

She looks a little suspicious – and Alec doesn't blame her, with the way he's been acting – but she responds with a soft, "okay."

Alec settles back against the wall, looking steadfastly at his textbook. "Nine o'clock sharp. I'll meet you at the door." He doesn't fully relax until he hears her go into her own room.

\--

"This is where you hunt for demons?" Marceline gapes at the lineup in front of pandemonium, her eyes lingering over the various tattooed patrons who are waiting to get stamped. "Your parents let you come here?"

"First rule of Shadowhunting: you go where the demons go." Alec sidesteps before a particularly rambunctious mundie trips over his feet, and his arm brushes against Marceline.

The touch triggers an instant reaction and the smooth skin brings back a flood of memories from the night before. He can feel Ara's soft hands pinning him to the ground and can taste the bitter tang of blood along his lips. He stiffens and Marceline draws her arms close, looking hurt. "I think I'm a little underdressed," she says, clearly misinterpreting his distress.

Alec actually smiles a little at that, gesturing to his faded jeans and ripped t-shirt. "Join the club."

"Hey, at least my clothes are intact," she teases. She steps toward him, and the scent of her shampoo – something citrusy – overwhelms his senses. He stumbles back, right into a group of mundanes who are thankfully too drunk to notice, but as he does, a familiar face catches his eye.

It's Jenkins, the werewolf from last night. He stands out in the crowd, towering inches above everyone else, but thankfully Alec manages to push away his anxiety and pull Marceline around the corner and halfway down the block before he can turn and spot them.

"Alec, what the hell are you doing?" She yanks her hand away, collapsing against the brick wall of a Laundromat. "Warn somebody before you take off like that."

Alec ignores her and runs out to flag down a cab. "Marceline you need to get in this cab and go straight back to the Institute. She opens her mouth to argue, but Alec just shoves some money at the driver and closes the door. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he says as she drives down the street. "I'll explain everything later."

As soon as the cab is out of view, Alec collapses to the sidewalk in relief. He's not that worried about Jenkins – he'd know by now if the werewolf had seen him – but he can't shake the feeling of discomfort that comes from being so close to Marceline. He should have known that this would happen sooner or later. The Shadowhunter life expectancy curve drops like the Marianas Trench after age twenty-five, so romances start young and escalate quickly. Still, he'd assumed he was safe in New York. He hadn't dreamed that his father would start arranging girlfriends for him, shipping them off to him like cattle. Marceline seemed like a pretty nice girl, but unfortunately, nice girls are the last things that Alec's interested in. For a second, he tries to convince himself that it won't be so bad. He imagines going back to the Institute, knocking on Marceline's door, and pulling her into his arms, but his very being balks violently at the idea of her breasts against his chest, of running his hand along the soft swell of her hips. He may be an aberration, a shame to the Shadowhunter name, and a coward, but he's not a liar. Even if, by some miracle, he could that to himself, it wouldn't be fair to Marceline or any other girl his father decided to push his way.

Agitated, he lets his thoughts drift to what he really wants, to narrow hips and a smooth, golden, navel-free abdomen. He lets the image of Magnus Bane flood his mind – his cool finger-snapping and effortless charisma– and his abdomen tightens with lust.

_Come back tomorrow._

The warlock's low, sultry purr is engrained in Alec's mind, playing on a loop like the horrible mundane songs that are constantly on the radio. Books, training, fending off Marceline – all have been attempts to rid himself of the complicated mixture of arousal and shame Magnus seems to elicit, and none have been successful. And nothing will be successful. He knows that unless he does something – finds someone, Magnus Bane or not – he's not going to be able to sleep. He's not going to be able to concentrate or rest until he can rid himself of this feeling. He's weak – a fact backed by years worth of evidence – and he should know better by now than to even try to resist.

\--

 _Maybe he's not here_ , Alec thinks as he pushes the bar door open. He convinces himself that he doesn't _want_ Magnus to be here, so that he can just have a drink, find a guy brave enough to go out back with him, and get this over with.

But when he looks to the edge of the bar and sees Magnus, disguised again by potent magic, chatting with a young mundane with spiky blonde hair, his heart flutters inappropriately in his chest. He dampens the feeling, pushing it into the far reaches of his mind, and approaches as confidently as he can. It's the allure of his power – the thought that maybe Magnus will be the one to push him over the edge, to drive him away from this lifestyle – that propels him toward the warlock, he tells himself. It's fear, not arousal that twists Alec's insides and makes his mouth go dry. Magnus has not only the means, but also the motive to make this hell for Alec. He can – he should – make this unbearable.

Though he doesn't look up from his conversation, Alec knows that Magnus can see him. He can feel Magnus's awareness of him; a skill honed from over a decade of battle. The young mundane looks up first, and visibly blanches when he takes in Alec's grim face and tattooed arms. Alec ignores him, and looks directly at Magnus.

"Does your offer from last night still stand?" he asks, sounding infinitely more confident than he feels.

Magnus's face is blank, but the corners of his mouth twitch with the urge to smile. His looks up through lowered lashes and a slow smirk spreads across his face. "Sorry Jared," he says to the mundane, pushing a drink toward him in recompense. "It looks like I'm spoken for." He grabs Alec's shirt and drags him toward the back room, and the air practically thrums with the force of his contained magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: we pick up right where this chapter left off ;)  
> From here on out the story is going to get a lot more plot-oriented. Magnus's presence will set some things in motion that affect both our boys.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised plot, but instead you're getting smangst (smutty angst). My stories usually start off at a slow burn and then explode somewhere in the middle, so I'm sure the same will happen here. Enjoy :)

With a snap of Magnus's finger the door slams and locks behind Alec. Alec jumps, his pulse hammering so loudly that he's sure Magnus's magically-enhanced hearing can pick it up. Not wanting to break the momentum, Magnus grabs Alec and slams him against the wall. His shoulders hit with a thud and the first prickle of unease dances along his skin.

 _Looks like Magnus is going to make this rough._ He bites down against the feeling, telling himself that isn't disappointing. It's expected. It's what he wants. Magnus presses close, pinning Alec against the wall, and the tight leather of his pants squeaks against Alec's jeans. His hand disappears for a second, and before Alec can even register the rustle of fabric and brush of fingers against his skin, Magnus has his seraph blade pressed against his throat. The air crackles with the strength of Magnus's power, but he doesn't actually use any magic on Alec. In fact, if not for the fact that he can feel the magic pressing against him, ready to be unleashed, Alec wouldn't know that Magnus was anything but mildly interested.

"Planning a little undercover mission, kitten?" Magnus runs the blade softly over Alec's exposed throat, and he suppresses the urge to shiver.

"Don't call me that," Alec growls. He takes a deep breath and then twists outward, pinning Magnus to the wall, fingers splayed so that he can't snap them. The seraph blade falls to the ground, echoing loudly in the small bathroom. "It's insulting."

"Almost as insulting as you thinking you can intimidate me." Magnus shifts slightly, and the wall of magic shifts with him. He mutters something under his breath in a language Alec doesn't understand and Alec can actually _feel_ the magic squeezing against him, forcing the air from his lungs. He blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the black spots suddenly obscuring his vision, but it doesn't work.

"This is not why I came here," he chokes out, fighting to keep Magnus in place.

Magnus raises an eyebrow and the magic dissipates, scattering with a faint hiss and a hint of blue smoke. Alec releases his grip on Magnus's wrists and slumps against the wall with a gasp. "If you're always this friendly, it's no surprise that half the Clave is looking for you."

"Really?" Magnus pouts. "Only half?" He rubs at his wrists, and Alec actually feels a bit guilty. There will probably be bruises there tomorrow.

"I didn't come here to hurt –"

Magnus raises his eyebrow again and Alec rolls his eyes. "I didn't come here to _try_ to hurt you," he corrects. _Not that I would be that obvious_ , he adds silently. He's not a complete idiot – it would take more than his spastic proposition and ugly sweaters to distract Magnus Bane enough to pull some kind of undercover hit. Not to mention he would be the last person the Clave would think to send after someone so important. He's not even the first Lightwood they would pick for a mission like that.

"Well then, Alec," says Magus, running his fingers along Alec's throat this time. "Why don't you just fill me in on why you did come here?"

Alec swallows, trying to regain a modicum of the surety he felt when he first walked into the bar. This is why he never talks to them; it's so much easier to just lean against the wall and let them figure it out for themselves.

Magnus folds his arms and slouches against the wall. "Well?"

"I came here," Alec forces out, crossing his arms and glaring at Magnus, "so that you could fuck me. So are you going to, or should I go find someone else?"

If Alec were a little less horny and a lot less mortified, he would probably find Magnus's reaction amusing. Though it's nearly instantaneous, the warlock's head legitimately recoils in shock. He recovers quickly though, staring Alec up and down with begrudging respect. "Color me surprised," he purrs, pressing a little closer. His hands curl around Alec's biceps, and Alec has to resist the urge to grind upward.

"And that, little Shadowhunter," he whispers against Alec's ear, pausing just long enough to brush his tongue lightly against the cartilage, "is not an easy thing to do."

Alec flushes, both from the sudden rush of want and from the shame of knowing that apparently he doesn't even live up to Magnus Bane's standards. And if everything he'd heard from Izzy and Jace was true, those standards aren't particularly impressive. "So, then are you going to get on with it?" Alec struggles to keep his voice low and deep and not at all the desperate timbre he's afraid will leak out. "Or have you changed your mind now?"

"Oh, darling," Magnus says, "it's going to take a little more than a slight change of plans to scare me away." He pauses, as if considering something important. "Though I wouldn't be averse to you pinning me to the wall again. Maybe next time."

The heat that shoots through Alec's body at that mental image almost makes him double over. He thinks of holding Magnus up, of pressing against him and feeling him shudder. He thinks of the noises the warlock would make and of long, lean legs wrapped around his waist. He imagines and he wants, more than he's ever wanted anyone – more than he wanted Jace, when he was shirtless and sweaty, runes glistening against his golden skin – and that fact is enough to expedite this entire transaction. He can't let this become something it's not. It will never be more than a compulsion, an unhealthy, irritating habit that pricks at his mind until he succumbs. It's stupid to pretend or to wish otherwise.

Instead of trying to come up with something to say, Alec just hauls his pants down with one quick flick of his wrist. Magnus's eyes flicker from the perfectly normal human green of his glamour, to cat-eye yellow, to entirely black, all in the span of a second. He groans, low and deep, and Alec isn't sure how many more noises like that he'll be able to handle. "I'm not sure you won't be the death of me yet," Magnus murmurs.

He leans in and brushes his lips against Alec's neck – the first time anyone has ever done so – and Alec is certain he's going to just crumple. The kiss races along his nerves until his entire body is alight with the sensation. Magus kisses his was across Alec's throat, his teeth and tongue alternately nipping and soothing, and Alec gropes for something to hold on to – something to keep him upright. His hands find purchase on the ages-old sink that's jutting out from the wall, but unfortunately, when Magnus's teeth sink into the soft hollow just behind his jaw, the sensation is overwhelming. He scrambles to control the outflow of pleasure, and rips the entire fixture from the wall.

"Fuck, you are so hot," Magnus moans before doubling his efforts. Alec ignores him, scrambling instead at the zipper of his ridiculous pants. Just as he's pulling them down, Magnus dips his head to try to capture Alec's mouth in a sloppy kiss. Alec balks, shoving him back hard enough to make him stumble.

"What the fuck?" Magnus's eyes flash again, but Alec is too busy trying not to panic that he doesn't notice.

"No kissing," he says, ignoring the incredulous look on Magnus's face.

"Fuck that," Magnus spits back. "If you think for one second that I'm going to deal with that elitist shadowhunter bullshit – "

"I don't kiss anyone," says Alec. He's blunt, honest – the only two things he can consistently be – and if Magnus wants to leave, then so be it. He has rules. "I've never kissed –" His voice trails off as he remembers the taste of cherry lip-gloss mixed with the tang of blood, and for an instant he thinks he might be sick.

"Not anyone?" Magnus doesn't look angry anymore, but Alec almost wishes he did. He hates the way Magnus's face is pinched and his brow is furrowed; he's looking at Alec like he's something to be pitied.

"Not anyone. Now, you have two options: keep talking, and watch me walk out and find someone who actually wants to fuck me, or come over here and do it yourself. What'll it be?"

Evidently the latter, as Magnus forgoes changing and just snaps the rest of his clothes away. Another snap and Alec is whipped around, arms against the wall and legs spread. He feels the sharp burn of humiliation, and relaxes infinitesimally.

"Bossy little thing, aren't you?" Magnus says, burying his face in the back of Alec's neck. Alec braces for the first thrust, tensing even though he knows it will just make it hurt more, but instead he feels the slow burn of one of Magnus's fingers and a tingling that hints at magical intervention. Magnus's finger slides in and out gently, provoking small, short gasps, and Alec tries to tell him to stop, that he doesn't want it like this – that it isn't supposed to feel like this, all heat and pleasure crackling up his spine – but he can't make himself speak. He just pants and moans and presses back into Magnus's hand until he adds a second finger, then a third.

When he finally nudges inside, it's nothing like Alec expected. Magnus is slow and thorough, and Alec can definitely see the benefits of hundreds of years of practice. He thrusts backward, his breath catching when Magnus changes the angle slightly.

As Alec gets more and more involved, the kisses on the back of his neck turn desperate, and Magnus fully bites down when Alec arches his back fully in time with each thrust. "Alec," he moans, half delirious. "What are you _doing_ to me?"

Alec doesn't answer, just concentrates on controlling the pressure that's building in his abdomen. He tries desperately to find the things that usually repel him – the low grunts, the slapping flesh, the sharp smell of musk – but those are all the things that are currently driving him insane. He doesn't know what to do, and just moans brokenly, clawing at the wall like the mad kitten Magnus believes him to be. When Magnus's hand creeps around and grabs his dick, he thinks he might actually explode. Magnus manages to jerk him off, slowly and agonizingly, changing his thrusts to match the pace. It's too much and not nearly enough, and Alec is torn between wanting to push Magnus away and begging him never to stop. He's about to open his mouth – to demand something, anything – but Magnus thrusts up and squeezes his hand and bites down on Alec's neck all at the same time and Alec just kind of short-circuits. He makes some sort of strangled noise, but it's in the sound of Magnus's broken moan.

The lights in the bathroom flicker, and Alec can hear a rumble of confusion from the bar that means it's probably happening out there as well. Alec is quickly distracted the warm, slick sensation of come running down his thighs, and he finally feels the rush of shame he's been expecting this whole time. With shaky limbs and a pounding heart he gathers up his jeans, not bothering to clean himself off. He tries to run the cold water, forgetting that Magnus made him rip the fucking sink of the wall, and instead scrambles for his seraph blade. Magnus, whose eyes actually glow in the dim light like a cat's, finally realizes what's happening.

"Hey," he says, grabbing Alec's arm. "Where are you going."

"I have to go." Alec bounces on the balls of his feet. "I have to go now."

"Wait." Magnus tries to tug him backward, and Alec, lost in the haze of pleasure and guilt and confusion, lashes out. His punch gets Magnus right in the jaw, sending him backward.

"Alec, what –"

Alec bolts, leaving Magnus standing naked in front of the detached sink.

"The hell is your problem," he finishes, even though he can sense that Alec is long gone. He snaps his clothes back into place and walks back out to the bar, ready to get drunk enough to forget the way Alec had looked when he admitted he had never been kissed. His thighs burn as he walks, a testament to the effort he'd had to put in to wring such delightful noises from the Shadowhunter. He remembers the outline of the stamina rune against Alec's hip, and wishes he'd taken the time to run his tongue across it. He sighs, disappointed at such a wasted opportunity, and orders up three shots of tequila to start. This is going to take a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to end with Magnus's POV this time. I changed from first person to third so that I wouldn't focus solely on Alec, as I am wont to do. Scold me if this happens!


	6. Chapter Six

It's late by the time Alec arrives at the Institute, and he's too preoccupied with thoughts of what had just happened to notice that there's someone there to meet him.

"Finally decided to come back, have you?"

Marceline's voice cuts through the darkness like a seraph blade, and leaves Alec feeling just as gutted. The evidence of what he'd been doing sticks to his skin, and with each shaky exhalation he can feel Magnus's come slip further down his legs. He should have taken the time to clean up, but he couldn't stand to be near the warlock for a single second longer.

"I don't need a babysitter," he growls, stalking off in the opposite direction. The muted light of the hall is the only reason he hasn't been found out, and every second that he spends with Marceline is another that she can use to her advantage.

"Hey! Don't you – " Darting nimbly forward Marceline reaches out to grab Alec's arm. The gesture isn't threatening – she just wants an explanation – and as such she's completely unprepared for his reaction.

"Don't," Alec lashes out as he spins around and slams her into the wall. There's a loud crack as her head thuds against the weathered stone, and a sprinkling of dust settles on the shoulders of her worn t-shirt. "Just don't touch me."

For a second she just looks at him, and Alec's stomach twists a little tighter with each breath she takes. She's _examining_ him, and he doesn't need to have access to her thoughts to know she'll find him wanting. There are so many things to dislike. He remembers the sharp, bright feeling of Magnus's teeth sinking into his jaw, and hopes like hell that she can't tell. If Magnus left any trace behind then he'll –

He'll do nothing, because he's never going to see him again.

When Marceline speaks, her voice is soft, but steady. "I know you don't need a babysitter," she says. "But I am pretty sure that you need a friend."

_A Friend._

Maybe she was right, but he was finished with having friends who could never really know him, because trying to maintain a friendship when you know you're one slip away from revealing the most disastrous part of yourself is exhausting. Living is exhausting enough for him, he didn't need to add on the weight of false pretenses.

He looks away when he answers, unwilling to engage. "Friends are the last things you should want in this line of work."

In the hours that he's been gone, it seems that Marceline has finally found her backbone. She peels herself away from the wall without as much as a whimper, and while she doesn't attempt to grab him again, she sidesteps until he's forced to meet her gaze. "I'm trying to tell you that I'm on your side, here."

He takes in her blonde hair, tight shirt, and heaving chest, and feels tired. Tired and pissed off and so fucking finished with this night.

"We'll never be on the same side of anything," he finally says. "I know why my father sent you here, and believe me when I say that you should go the hell home."

This time he doesn't give her the time to follow; he slips into a double-doored room, prepared to take the long way through the silent Institute. Tonight the voice that haunts his thoughts outweighs the terror of the memories that haunt these halls.

It's not until he's safely behind his door, shucking off his dirty, come-stained pants, that all the pain and fear and uncertainty unwinds and he starts to shake.

\--

When he arrives in the kitchen Alec is surprised to find that his mother's seat is already occupied – by Marceline. She stares right at him, as if he didn't try to concuss her the night before, and wordlessly offers him a box of cereal.

He takes the gesture as a peace offering, and settles in to eat.

She is, he finds out after a ten-second silence, much chattier than he'd initially given her credit for. "So are we going to train today?"

He glances at her, eyebrow raised, but she doesn't back down. In fact, she shows no hint that the events of the previous night even took place.

"I've been here for a couple of days and I haven't even been inside the training room."

_Not for a lack of trying_ , Alec thinks. The girl is like demon pox – she won't go away, no matter how hard you wish for it to happen.

"I don't really like to go in there." There are too many memories – of Izzy, howling with laughter and clacking smoothly over the floor in four-inch heels, and of Jace, focused and feral, filled with a deadly grace that most Shadowhunters would have killed to possess. Now the mats are covered in dust, and the worn target he'd focused on for so many hours of his childhood lies in the center of the grimy floor. His mother avoids that entire wing like it's poison, and not even Church will wander through.

"Then where do you train?" She pulls back her hair as she talks – a gesture so reminiscent of Izzy that he swallows too quickly and spasms with harsh, barking coughs – and Alec can see that there are freshly drawn runes on the underside of her arm.

They're probably there because of him – in case he tries to hurt her again – and that shameful fact makes him a little more accommodating. "The armory, sometimes. There are some mats in there, and the wall is decent for scaling."

"Well then, Lightwood," she says, pushing her chair out and fixing him with another formidable stare. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

\--

Marceline is talented; Alec can admit that much after a few hours with her. She's no Izzy – very few people are, and she'd been wiping the floor with him by the time she was eleven years old – but she could hold her own. In fact, with Alec's headspace still dominated by the encounter with Magnus, she'd been able to get the better of him more times than he'd like to admit.

They train hard, and Alec relishes the burn of his muscles. Every slap of her halberd releases a small amount of tension, and by the time they're finished, he feels like he can hold his shoulders up without feeling like his entire back is going to collapse under their weight. He breathes a little bit easier with each moment that passes. With each moment that takes him farther away from his indiscretions.

There hasn't been a lot of time for talking this morning, and when Marceline collapses in a heap and pulls of her combat boots with a groan, he's feeling a little generous.

"Listen, Marceline, about last night – "

"You don't need to apologize," she says. She tosses her boots to the side and folds her legs until one is draped over the other. "And I'm not really interested in you coming up with some lie."

The room squeezes inward, and all the tension that Alec had worked so hard to release is back ten-fold. The beginning of a massive headache creeps up the back of his neck, prickling at the base of his skull. Sometimes he feels as though the universe exists only to fuck with him.

"Listen, I don't know what you were doing," she says, taking in Alec's instant transformation, and trying her best to be soothing. "And I know you won't believe me when I say I don't care. But I don't."

She scoots forward and nudges Alec's boot with her foot. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but could you at least ask yourself this: why would I leave Alicante willingly, to come to the one Institute that's been tainted? I've literally seen people join expeditions to Siberia to avoid being placed here."

Alec flinches, and her voice becomes even gentler.

"I want to be here, Alec. And I'm kind of hoping that after a little while you'll want me to be here too."

She grabs her boots and sets off for the door, leaving Alec alone with his thoughts.

Hours pass with Alec on the cold floor, and when he finally forces himself to get up, he's no further ahead than he was when Marceline left.

\--

There's a pounding in Alec's skull and a twisting in his gut, and it's entirely Magnus Bane's fault.

It shouldn't be happening this early. He usually has a week – sometimes more, if there's a mission that he can lose himself in – before he wants to creep back to the club. It takes days for the smell of sweat to leave his nostrils, for the burn of pain and shame to clear enough that he's almost forgotten how they taste, bitter and hot against the back of his throat.

But now – now he feels possessed. He can't go more than a few minutes without feeling the cracking heat that Magnus had sparked in him, can't shut his eyes for an instant without seeing the sprinkling of glitter across the warlock's eyelids. He's going mad, and he would almost think it was a spell, if he wasn't so sure of his own insignificance.

It's not late enough to fall asleep, and he knows that if he lies down, alone in his bed, that it'll be infinitely worse, so he grabs his stele from its place on his beside table and heads toward the kitchen. It's been weeks since he tried to cook anything, but he needs something to occupy his hands. Something to distract his traitorous mind.

He's flipping the stele in the air and catching it as it falls, when he nearly bumps into his mother.

"Alexander." She looks surprised to see him, but her voice is gravelly. Worn. She's wearing sunglasses though the light in the Institute has already started to dim, and he knows that she's been suffering migraines. He's seen the faded Iratze at the base of her skull more than a few times over the past two weeks.

"Mother." He falls into step beside her, not really expecting anything else from the interaction. She's on her way to the library, he knows; it's where she spends all her nights, surrounded by the books and photos that are the only real reminders of the family she used to have. He used to sit in there too, until he realized that his presence only made things worse for her. He's a reminder of what she has lost, rather than what she has left.

"Alexander, wait." She reaches out, as if to touch him, but draws her hand back when he flinches. He thinks of a world where he could tell her what's wrong, and thinks that even if that world existed, she still probably wouldn't want to know.

"You've been spending some time with Marceline."

It's not a question, not the way she's framed it, but Alec can hear the subtext as easily as he can conjure up the image of Magnus's cat eyes, dilated and hooded with lust. His body tenses against his will, and his fists curl into tight balls that bounce off his jeans in a series of rapid jerks.

"She comes from a respected family," Maryse says. "They hold a lot of influence in Alicante."

_Like we used to_ , Alec hears.

"I hope that she'll be with us for a while."

Unable to lie, unable to breathe, unable to do anything, really, but think of the parts of Marceline, outside of her bright eyes and her willingness to lower herself to pursuing a Lightwood, that would be enough for him.

It was useless; he already knew that none of it would be enough. That as much as he wished it were not so, she would never be enough.

"She's great," he fumbles out, and as quickly as he jerks his head forward, it's still not fast enough to miss his mother's darkening face. He still manages to watch her hope fade away, overrun by her usual heavy disappointment.

Once she turns for the library without a goodbye, he doubles back to his room and grabs twin Seraph blades. Their weight feels reassuring in his hand. He smiles – a grim, twisted thing – happy that there's at least one guarantee for a Shadowhunter such as him – especially one such as him – and that's that he will never, as long as he still draws breath, run out of demons to slay.

\--

For all the flaws it may have, and for all the Shadowhunters who don't want to be placed here, there's one thing to be said about New York City: there's no shortage of things to kill. Demons were drawn in by the eclectic population, the sheer density of mundanes per square mile, and the infinite possibility to blend in.

There's enough demonic energy in this city to power a less ring of hell, Alec's sure. And after twenty years, he knows exactly where to find what he's looking for.

He'd left home without a jacket, and somewhere along the way he'd lost his shirtsleeves. Demons, unlike Shadowhunters, weren't picky with their conquests. There's no angelic blood to temper their foul proclivities, and like Alec, to them a hard chest and sculpted biceps seemed more of a turn-on than a threat. It doesn't take long, once he's wound his way past the old wreckage of Pandemonium, into the streets where dark things often lurk, to find what he's searching for.

"Are you lost, beautiful?" The voice slithers from the darkness, a crooning whisper of sound that's almost lost in the wind. A blank calm falls over Alec as he hears the slow approach of footsteps – three sets, by the sound of it. Maybe more.

The first demon, disguised as a man maybe a few years older than him, makes a show of looking him up and down.

_This is what you are_ , Alec thinks, as he sees the genuine lust in the demons eyes. _This is the kind of thing that's attracted to people like you._

"Now, now," says a second voice – female this time, at least in appearance – as another demon approaches Alec from behind. "You don't want to scare our guest.

Alec shifts his center of gravity; the glamour he casted on his way here is nearly spent, and once the demons see the seraph blades crisscrossed along his back, they'll attack.

The third demon doesn't bother being coy; when it thunders toward Alec, unglamoured and hideous, the others let their disguises fall away as well.

"Don't be frightened, little one," the first demon says, its forked tongue hissing against cracked lips. "This will only hurt a little."

Alec reaches up and grabs a blade with each hand, spinning into a flip that puts him at a better vantage point behind all three demons.

"I'm afraid I can't promise the same," he says, and loses himself to heat of battle.

\--

At first the screeching of the lesser demons brings a few comrades to the cause. At their peak, they outnumber Alec six to one, but he cuts through them all like grass. He's filthy, bathed in a mixture of blood, sweat, and ichor, and his every muscle burns. His breath comes in great, gasping pants, but still he fights on. He presses forward as if possessed, the swirls of bright light from his blades glinting and jumping like his own personal aurora.

When he's finished there's a pile of ash and ichor at his feet and a series of scratches across his body. He refuses to draw an Iratze, reveling in the pain that lances across his back, nearly bringing him to his knees. It's overwhelming and it keeps him from thinking of more dangerous things.

He's about to renew his glamour so that he can get home unhindered when a voice echoes from the shadows.

"Alone and wounded, and you don't even take the time to reapply your runes?"

The figure steps into the light, and Alec's eyes flick to the curved horns protruding from his head, poking through the thin fabric of his beanie.

Warlock.

"Get out of here," Alec rasps, because he may be in pain and he may be filthy, but he's far from finished.

And he didn't come out here to kill downworlders.

"You're not in much of a position to be giving orders."

The warlock rubs his fingers together, conjuring audible yellow sparks that rain to the ground before fizzling out. It's an impressive tactic, but Alec can't help but think that if his magic were at all powerful he'd be doing a lot more attacking and a lot less showboating. He was stalling, which meant he was probably waiting for someone else.

"You should leave," Alec says, a little louder this time. And then, tacked on as if an afterthought, "I won't ask again."

The warlock's eyes narrow, and he raises his hands to cast a spell when Alec lets loose a dagger from beneath his t-shirt. The warlock lets out a sharp curse and then rushes Alec, perhaps forgetting that his range is greatest advantage, especially since Alec doesn't have his bow.

"I don't. Want. To hurt you," Alec pants out as he dodges a series of rudimentary spells. The warlock must be young and untrained, and it speaks volumes of his hatred that he would dare to attack Alec alone, even with the extent of his injuries.

Still, the anger of battle is settling over him, and with each renewed attack it's harder to keep from truly lashing out. His wounds are actively bleeding, and if this warlock really is waiting for someone else, Alec needs to get the hell out of there before he's in real trouble.

He pushes to the offensive, blades crashing down in a flurry of nonlethal blows, and is just about to knock the warlock to the ground when he makes a mistake. His hand, coated with blood, slips, and the resulting fumble gives the warlock an opening to blast him back five feet.

He lands against cold asphalt with a crack of his skull, and when he shoots up it takes every ounce of willpower to keep from vomiting. The warlock looks shocked and triumphant, which is probably why he hasn't ended the fight yet. When he sees Alec move he lifts his hands to cast a final spell.

Alec has no choice. It's either kill or be killed at this point, and there's still a part of him that refuses to give up. A part that needs to live, for his mother. For Izzy.

He hauls his arm back, lining up his shot. His vision is still a bitty spotty, but he knows that the blade will sink true. He's just about to release it when his arm freezes; it sits, suspended in air, and his Seraph blade winks into darkness.

From across the lot he hears the warlock's breath catch as well, and can see that he's caught in the same state of frozen disbelief.

"Micah, get out of here."

That _voice_. It twists something inside of Alec, something wild and powerful that can't be dampened by the force of any spell, even one as powerful as Magnus's. It's visceral, Alec's reaction to this particular warlock, try as he may to fight it.

"Magnus, I was just –"

"About to get yourself killed." Magnus stalks into view and this time he has no glamour. His cat eyes glow in the dark alley and the crackle of magic around him is enough to make Alec second-guess his own safety. "I'll deal with the Nephilim."

He clicks his fingers again and Micah drops to the ground. He takes one look at Alec, immobilized, but still covered in blood and clutching a blade, and bolts.

Magnus waits until he's out of sight to release Alec. He falls forward into a heap, unsure if he can summon the strength to lean back. His head is swimming, and there's only so much blood a Shadowhunter can lose before he starts to feel the effects.

"Aren't you going to heal yourself?"

He snaps his fingers again and just like that Alec's stele is in his hand. He stares at it dumbly, unsure of what he's supposed to do.

He came for the pain, and it seems like a waste to take it all away. Plus, once his head is clear, he'll have to deal with the fact that Magnus is here, close enough to touch. Without the throbbing in his back, he'll have to deal with the ache that's building behind his chest.

Still, with the amount of magic Magnus is emitting, there's bound to be more trouble soon. He needs to do _something_ , or risk getting ambushed. He brings up his hand to draw the runes he needs, but his hands are shaking so hard that the stele topples to the ground.

When he reaches out for it his t-shirt shifts, putting the gouges from the demons on full display.

"Alec," Magnus says, rushing forward to help. His eyes are bright and concerned – too concerned, Alec thinks, as his vision starts to tunnel. "What the hell have you been doing out here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the pre-written chapters, so updates will be much less frequent now - but they will still happen! I love hearing from all of you, and it makes me feel a lot less nervous about posting something so dark when you all seem so enthusiastic. Much love <3


	7. Chapter Seven

The Shadowhunter slumps forward, his head on a direct path to the blood soaked asphalt, and though he could stop the descent with a flick of his wrist, Magnus is too shocked to do anything but lunge after him. He's heavy – _solid_ , Magnus knows, and probably capable of ripping him in half with his bare hands. Without magic, Magnus would be helpless to this trained killer. It's a thought that would probably be arousing, if there weren't demon ichor staining his once-beautiful boots and blood spilling onto his uncovered hands. It's a thought that he'll probably revisit at a later time.

He snaps a finger, casting an invisibility glamour over the pair of them. Alec has lost a lot of blood, but that's not particularly concerning; if Shadowhunters were that easy to kill, he wouldn't be biding his time in this Mundie hovel, waiting for other High Warlocks to get off their asses and get something accomplished.

Still, Alec is _interesting_ , and every minute that he spends unconscious is another minute that Magnus can't discover anything new. So haste is really in his own best interest.

Opening a portal would be idiotic, especially at a site so saturated in demonic energy, so he just hovers Alec along behind him straight into the club's unoccupied bathroom. It takes almost no effort to make sure that the room remains unoccupied, and it's as safe a place as any to get work done.

He puts his hands over the wound on Alec's back, balking as the boy coughs up some blood. Evidently he's a little sicker than expected; the infinite patience of an immortal has its downfalls, not least of which is people dying unexpectedly, and Magnus mutters his spell hastily, trying to seek out whatever venom has infected the Shadowhunter's blood.

It takes mere seconds to pinpoint the origin: Sviraci demon. Nasty stuff, too: liver damage, inability to form clots, basically bleeding from everywhere. As if to impress upon him the importance of working quickly, Alec's wounds begin to gush. Blood trickles from the corner of his eye, and Magnus's chest lurches uncomfortably.

Alec's runes are starting to fade.

Panicked – and stunned at how much he's panicking – Magnus fires off a rapid sequence of near-useless spells. He drains a good quarter of his reserve power with nonsense magic-work, unable to think clearly with this beautiful, confusing _enemy_ bleeding out in front of him. Blood puddles by his feet, pouring now, from even the smallest scratches.

He scrambles, waving his arms in a series of intricate movements, trying to summon the requisite energy, but Alec's body is saturated with the stuff. Magnus has no idea how he let it get this far; how did he not have time to even scribble a simple Iratze?

"Fight it, Alec," he orders, pressing his hands directly to the worst wounds. His hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn't dare move a muscle. "Fight harder."

Shadowhunters are strong, but he knows from experience not even the heavenly blessed can exsanguinate without major repercussions. He's also aware that they barely know each other – that they're supposed to want to _kill_ each other – but the thought of this beautiful, tortured boy expiring here, on this filthy fucking floor, surrounded by some of the worst that humanity has to offer, is reprehensible. He's Magnus Goddamn Bane, and he will not let Alec Lightwood die.

By some miracle – angelic intervention, perhaps, considering the lineage of his makeshift patient – he manages to stop the bleeding. The bathroom looks like the scene of a low-budget slasher film, Alec's face is the color of bleached parchment, and Magnus's hands are trembling – from the effort, he tries to convince himself, but the hard work is done. From here, it's an easy fix to counteract the venom, pump a little _oomph_ into the Shadowhunter's bone marrow to make up for the lost blood, and patch up the tissue damage.

He accomplishes all this with enough energy to conjure up a couple drinks from the bar: a vodka martini for him, because he fucking _deserves_ it, and a shot of whiskey for Alec, because he's pretty damn sure that he's going to need it.

\--

The first mistake Alec makes upon waking is trying to stand up; the ground rushes at him precipitously and the whole world tilts before his eyes. He reaches out wildly to try to catch himself and makes his second mistake: falling into Magnus Bane.

"I know I'm irresistible," the warlock purrs, grinning down at Alec. "But you might want to take it easy for a few minutes."

"You brought me here." Once the room stops spinning, Alec can finally recognize where "here" is. The sink he'd ripped off the wall has been moved, but there's still a gaping hole in the plaster; not all the evidence of their encounter can be so easily washed away.

"Here." Magnus says, holding out a shot and ignoring Alec's mastery of the obvious. The tumbler is full of whisky – Alec's usual kind – and as soon as the liquid touches his throat he feels better. More grounded.

"You know my drink."

There are so many more pertinent things to say – thank you, not being the least among them – but Alec's head is still thick and clouded. Instead of embarrassing himself by trying to stand again he creeps over to lean back against the wall, and is surprised when Magnus plops down beside him. He snaps a blanket into existence to counteract the chill of the ancient laminate floor, and Alec is too tired to accuse him of showing off.

"I know a lot more than you give me credit for, _Alexander_."

Magnus smiles again, wickedly this time, with a quirk of his brow, and Alec doesn't know him well enough to assess if the gesture is meant to be flirtatious or threatening. _Probably both_ , he decides. It's irrelevant, because if Magnus wanted him dead he would have let the demon-venom do its trick.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what that little show was about?"

Magnus looks curious – and has that same pinched, concerned look that he had in the alley. It's a look he shouldn't have, and one that doesn't need encouraging.

"No," Alec says, and then pulls a little farther away. "I'm not."

He picks up his stele and starts reapplying ruins, breathing a little more deeply as his head clears. Magnus's magic was effective, but Alec hates feeling indebted to anyone – especially the warlock. There's too much about him that Alec doesn't understand. Too much that he doesn't want to understand.

Even thinking of Magnus is dangerous. If anyone from the Clave ever found out about this _compulsion_ of his, they'd be able to wring out Magnus's identity – and whereabouts. Alec may not be much of a threat on his own, but he knows that Magnus would feel quite a bit differently with the full power of the Circle breathing down his neck. Valentine has unique ways of neutralizing downworlders' powers – and then making them suffer.

But despite all the reasons he shouldn't, the urge to turn toward Magnus is nearly impossible to fight; he has strengths, he's sure he must, but this obviously isn't one of them. This – this _thrumming_ in his blood, that makes it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. This isn't something that he's ever been taught to overcome. He was born incapable, and he knows he needs to leave before he has another disappointing failure to add to an already-long list. Figuring that the runes have been on long enough to accomplish something of substance, he pushes his hands back against the wall and shoots forward, slipping his stele into his back pocket as he stands.

"So that's it?" Magnus rises as gracefully as he walks, but instead of reaching out for Alec, he just leans against the wall, perfectly at ease. His hip juts out at a sharp angle, and Alec has an overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and just _lick_ , right along the sharply demarcated line. Instead, he balls up his fists and imagines that everyone he's ever cared about can see him, bloodstained and alone, fantasizing about Magnus Bane in a dirty bathroom.

As if he can sense Alec's trepidation, Magnus steps forward, closing the gap between them. The glitter beneath his eyes catches the light, and it's all just too much: the blood loss, the fear, the _wanting_. Alec knows he needs to leave, and quickly.

"And not even so much as a thank-you?"

Alec gapes, then reaches for his blade as he realizes what Magnus must mean, what he must want. "If you think that I – "

"Relax," Magnus says lazily. "If you think I need to extort sex out of anyone, little Nephilim, then you simply haven't been paying attention."

He runs a finger lightly up Alec's forearm, as if he knows exactly what kind of effect it'll have. "Plus, if memory serves, you are perfectly capable of letting me know what you want, and when you want it."

He grins, and Alec twists away from his touch.

"I'm not like you," he says. His words are harsh and low, and they echo loudly in the empty bathroom. "I don't like it."

Magnus's grin widens; he looks more like a manic pixie than a powerful warlock, but there's still an undercurrent of power – and danger – that pulses through Alec like blood made fire.

"Maybe you don't," Magnus concedes. The light in the bathroom flickers and then, after a sharp _pop_ , goes out. "But you could."

His eyes glow in the near-darkness, and Alec doesn't realize that he's backed into the wall until Magnus's hands settle on either side of him, just brushing the sensitive skin of his hips. "Believe me when I say you could _love_ it."

_That's not true_ , Alec thinks. He knows, after hundreds of these encounters, and hundreds of horrible aftermaths, that there is no way he could ever like this. He doesn't _want_ to like it. Slinking around like a demon in the night and giving into base urges that were outlawed long before Valentine ever came into power were no way to live a life. That's just not the way a Shadowhunter is supposed to act.

"You're wrong," he finally says, willing it to be the truth, and hating that he sounds so uncertain. Magnus's face is still hovering inches from his, and he wonders, just for half a second, how it would feel to brush their lips together.

He wonders if it would feel like anything more than a betrayal of everything he's supposed to stand for.

One thing is certain: he needs to get away from Magnus. He needs to go back to when this was something physical – something to be endured and then forgotten – because there's no way he can survive otherwise. Marceline's already suspicious, his mother's already broken, and his sister's fate depends on his good behavior. He's always been the weak one, and the way Magnus looks at him – hell, the way Magnus does anything – is enough to overpower far stronger men.

"I need to go," Alec says. To his surprise, Magnus backs off, and fans his arms toward the door.

"I'll be here," he says, as he snaps the light back into existence. "For the next time you're feeling a little more self-reflective."

"I won't be back." The words even taste like a lie, slippery and foul as they roll off his tongue. Still, he straightens his back and walks past Magnus, not daring to breathe until his hand's on the door. "You should forget you ever met me."

"Not likely," Magnus mutters, just loud enough for Alec to hear. He walks over to the dirty mirror to fix the strands of hair that had been flattened during the resuscitation. He turns again just before Alec slips away, whispering at the Shadowhunter's back, "Be careful, Alexander."

\--

Alec thinks about Magnus's last words all the way home. It takes him much longer than usual to get back to the Institute, so he has ample time to ruminate on how Magnus knows his full name (or whether he even truly knows it and is not just guessing), why he saved his life again, and why he keeps wanting to see him. He spends so much time thinking about him, in fact, that he doesn't realize until it's too late that he has a welcoming party for the second night in a row.

Marceline pounces on him as soon as he enters the Institute. Unfortunately, this time he doesn't have the strength – mentally or physically – to ward her off. He stumbles as she pulls him into a side door, hissing when her hand brushes against one of his bruises.

"Alec, I need to…"

She stops as she catches his face in the light.

Alec's not sure what she sees; his face is tender, but with the way Magnus was looking at him earlier, he hadn't thought there was anything out of place.

"By the Angel," she murmurs, pulling back her hand. "What happened?"

"Ambush," Alec says, and it's not really a lie. It's still an ambush, even if you went looking for it.

She raises an eyebrow, but Alec holds fast. She's lucky, really, that he gave her that much: it has to be the blood loss.

"Listen, wherever you're going, whatever you're doing –"

"I'm not doing –" Alec starts to argue, but Marceline just holds up a hand to silence him.

"This is not the time to argue about your extra-curriculars," she snaps. "I want to give you space and time to sort out how much you want to trust me, but I need you to listen right now. I – I haven't been completely honest with you."

She looks genuinely upset, and Alec is half tempted to tell her what kinds of things he has been doing, if only to prove that whatever she's done can't be that bad by comparison. He'd seen that same look a lot of times on Isabelle, and it was second-nature to want to make it go away.

"Fuck!" The Mundie curse sound strange coming from her mouth, but it slips out with practiced ease. "Valentine is coming."

Alec slumps against the wall, thinking of all the things that could have happened. "Isabelle?" he whispers.

"She's fine," Marceline answers. "I mean, I'm assuming she's fine; we'll get to that in a second. But that's not why he's coming."

_No, he's coming for me._

Alec knows, somehow that this is true.

"The radar here picked up a spike of magic – warlock magic. I'm talking huge proportions. There are only a handful of warlocks left who are this powerful. I, I tried to hide it, but – "

"You tried to _what_?" Alec is sure he's hallucinating – what Marceline had just admitted was no less than treason.

She juts her chin out, suddenly looking every bit her scant seventeen years. She's a child – a stubborn, self-righteous child – just like he had been. Like Izzy, Clary – and Jace.

He pushes away the pang of sorrow that always accompanies thoughts of his former parabatai and refocuses on the issue at hand.

Marceline stares him down, giving him time to speak. When he doesn't, she continues on. "In case you were wondering," she says, "this is me, trusting you. Now I want you to do the same."

She glances toward the door and then moves to carve a quick Silencing rune into the ancient grooves.

"Valentine wasn't supposed to come this soon," she says. "But I knew he would end up here eventually, and that's why I came. It's why I volunteered. They wanted someone for a mission, and since my parents lap up every word he says like its Divine Scripture, I was an easy pick. A safe pick."

"Your mission," Alec says, finally starting to understand. "It was me, wasn't it?"

He doesn't need to see Marceline nod to know that he's right; in a way, he's known that this moment has been coming since he stood off against Valentine two years ago. Since Valentine banished him here, to stand as an example and to await his eventual punishment. He's known that his runes were as good as gone since the first time he stepped into that mundie bar. And now his time is coming.

"Alec, ALEC!" Marceline snaps a finger in front of his face. "You have to pay attention, because what I'm going to tell you is really fucking important. It's about your sister. It's about Isabelle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffy - sorry, I really seem to like those. I've been so happy to hear from all of you and hope that you keep reading. I really hope I can live up to all the praise. You are the best. *snuggles*


	8. Chapter Eight

Marceline’s words are like a blow, punching the air from Alec’s lungs. If anything has happened to her – well, he doesn’t know. He just can’t fathom a world that doesn’t have Izzy. She’s the only person who knows him – or at least knows the version of him that’s closest to the truth. In this upside down version of reality, she’s the only person he can count on to realize that everything is out of place. 

She’s his reason to keep going, and if she’s gone, then he’s not sure it how long it will take for him to just…stop. 

Marceline is _surveying_ him again, looking him up and down as if she can read his every thought. For someone with such obvious intensity, he wonders how she ever managed to keep her feelings guarded from Valentine and her parents. 

“Just tell me,” he says eventually. Better to plunge the knife fast and deep – then maybe he won’t feel it as it’s ripped out. 

“Stop freaking out.” Marceline commands, and it’s a testament to Alec’s current mental state that he lets her guide him to the floor. “Seriously, stop freaking out. I think your sister is fine.”

“You think?” Alec yanks his hand away and tries to pull himself up. He’s not here for thoughts and conjecture. He’s here for something useful. 

Marceline pulls him back down lazily, completely ignoring Alec’s complete mortification. “How much do you know about Shadowhunter Academy?” 

Alec knows the bare minimum, and he tells her as much. When Alec was a child he was given the choice to go to the Academy. It was an honor; only the best and the brightest were offered a spot. But they couldn’t guarantee a spot for Izzy, and so really, as far as he was concerned, they didn’t have a spot for him either. 

Back then, students were taken into the Academy when they were six years old, and they stayed there nearly year-round for their entire ten years of training. In those days the Academy was set up much like a Mundie boarding school; students attended classes, went on field missions, and shared accommodations. If not for the advanced weaponry and potential for violent death, it could have fit easily into one of the Mundie pocket novels Izzy used to smuggle under her pillow. 

But now, the only thing Alec knows about the Academy is that it’s mandatory and that the methods of indoctrination into the “Shadowhunter way of life” are harsh. Flunking out means being stripped of your runes and he spends most of his time trying not to think about Izzy alone in that place, tiptoeing around rules she was used to flagrantly disregarding. 

“In most ways it hasn’t changed much,” Marceline tells him. “It’s still regimented, still multidisciplinary, and still intense as hell. The subject matter has changed –” she shifts uncomfortably, finally settling with her feet tucked beneath her knees, “ – but the general principles have endured. It’s a lot, uh, crueler than it used to be – at least, I imagine it is. I hadn’t trained there before Valentine took over.” 

She pauses for a second, and Alec wants to ask what she’s thinking. He’s intimately familiar with feeling inadequate, and he wishes he could tell her so. 

It’s as if he spend half his life thinking of all the things he wishes he could tell people. To his mother: I’m still here; to Max: I’m sorry; to Izzy: Nothing you do there is your fault; to Jace… Well, there are a million things he wishes he could tell Jace, but every single one will remain forever unsaid. 

And to Magnus Bane: _I know_.

“Isabelle hates it there. Her letters say otherwise, but I know her. I know that that place is killing her.” 

“That’s just it,” Marceline says, pushing her hair out of her face. “I don’t think it is.” 

Alec’s rage is quick and fierce. This is what happens when you try to trust people; Marceline doesn’t know Izzy – or Alec for that matter. 

He pushes away from the wall, only to end up with Marceline’s hand on his chest, nudging him back. “Alec, calm down and let me talk for more than five seconds, _please_. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t think Isabelle is even at Shadowhunter Academy.” 

For a second, Alec is stunned. He sits there, useless, while his brain tries to sift through the information presented. Then, as he really starts to think little pieces start to fall together: Valentine’s insistence that he stay in New York, Isabelle’s ridiculous letters, the graduation ceremony that had been cancelled the year before. His mother hadn’t been allowed to leave the Institute, and Isabelle had been barred from leaving Idris – both ostensibly as punishment for their crimes, but what if it was something more? 

After his grand plans with the Mortal Cup had yielded far fewer Shadowhunters than intended, Valentine was almost manically obsessed with maintaining those that he had under his control; Alec and his mother weren’t much, but they were two trained Shadowhunters he couldn’t afford to lose. They knew New York and they knew the Downworlder haunts that littered the East Coast, and he needed them. 

But if he doesn’t have Izzy, then maybe that could change. 

_If he doesn’t have Izzy_ , Alec thinks, he stomach sinking rapidly, _then everything I’ve done – every atrocity I’ve committed – was for nothing_. 

Marceline barrels on, too caught up in her theory to pay attention to Alec’s moral crisis. 

“She was given private lessons,” she says, up now, and pacing across the room above Alec. “She didn’t come to mess hall, she didn’t participate in group training. The instructors all said it was punishment for her part in the war, but it didn’t seem like a great punishment. I mean, I know from experience that it would have been a way better punishment to stick her in the shared dorms. Those rooms are disgusting.”

She trails off for a second, until another thought pops in her head. “We only caught glimpses of her, and only ever from a distance. Black hair, long legs, but never anything more. It just seemed off, you know?” 

Alec does know. Valentine likes his punishments public; he’s not one to let his enemies slip into the shadows. If Izzy wasn’t on full display, it was for a reason.

Alec pulls himself up from the floor, leaning against the wall for support. Magnus’s magic helped, but it’s going to take a day or so for him to be up to full strength. What he really needs is rest, but it doesn’t look like that’s on the horizon. 

“If she isn’t at the Academy,” Alec says, shutting his eyes against the precarious tilting of the room, “then where is she?”

When Marceline meets his eyes this time, she’s blushing. It’s faint and the room is dark, but it’s there: a pink band across the bridge of her nose. 

“The Resistance?” 

“The Resistance?” Alec slumps back down on his ass, kicking at the deep grooves in the floor as he settles. “Did she take a side-trip to the Faerie Grove while she was at it? No wait, maybe she’s ascended and is leading a troop of angels against Valentine.”

“Alec, I’m serious.” She kneels down, making sure that he’s still paying attention. “I was out on group patrol a few months ago and got separated from the group. The patrols are mostly for show; you don’t get many demons or downworlders in Idris. I was tracking through the woods, trying to find some sign of my group, when I saw a Faerie.” 

“A Faerie?” The Fae had worked hard to stay away from Shadowhunters, even in the years preceding Valentine’s takeover. The chances that Marceline had just stumbled upon one – alone and unprotected – were astronomical. 

“I know it sounds far-fetched, but Alec I _know_ what I saw. It was a Faerie and he was runed.” 

“Runed?” Alec looks toward the door to check the Silencing rune. For Marceline to even say something like this – death would be merciful, if it ever got back to Valentine. “Are you out of your damn mind?” 

“Don’t act like this is completely outside the realm of possibility,” Marceline hisses, stung by Alec’s rebuke. “I know that Clary Fairchild – ”

“Don’t.” Alec’s voice is harsher now – forbidding. He rises, this time to go back to his room. Thoughts of Clary bring back thoughts of Jace, and thoughts of Jace – well, they were avoided at all costs. “Clary’s dead.” 

“But what if she’s not.” Marceline’s eyes are wide and earnest. She believes, more strongly than Alec has ever believed in anything, he’s sure, but that doesn’t make her right. 

“Alec, just think about it. Clary didn’t just die – she disappeared. Isabelle Lightwood isn’t being made into an example – she’s being sheltered. Encounters with runed Fae, Valentine keeping such a close eye on your family, it’s all got to mean _something_.”

“Just because you want it to mean something, doesn’t mean it does.” Alec stalks toward the door – if Valentine really is coming, then there’s something he’s got to do, and fast. “That’s one thing I’m sure you didn’t learn at the Academy: just because you’re a Shadowhunter doesn’t mean you can get every damn thing you want. Angelic blood doesn’t mean shit when the whole world is burning.” 

Even though he’s sure she can tell that he can barely keep himself upright, Marceline doesn’t stop him from leaving. In fact, she follows him all the way to the front door, standing a silent vigil as he leaves. 

\--

The whole time he walks back to the club, Alec repeats, over and over, that this is a colossal mistake. Magnus is probably long gone, and even if he isn’t – especially if he isn’t – he’s going to make that stupid, infuriating smug face. 

Alec ends up paying cover for the first time. Depending on the night it usually only takes half a smile or a sullen raised-eyebrow to step past the doorman, but tonight he looks neither attractive nor intimidating enough to waive the ten-dollar fee. Convinced that he’s going to make Magnus pay it back, he flicks the money at the blue-haired mundie with no argument and stalks inside. 

The worst thing about his aching head and stiff legs, to his surprise, isn’t the pounding bass or the uneven floor, it’s the fact that there’s nothing he can do about the eyes that trace his every step. He’s been here a hundred times, always looking for the same kind of guy – big, mean, and predatory – but this is the first time he’s ever felt like _prey_. Someone’s hand brushes across his ass, but the whole room spins when he tries to grab onto the wrist. A burly mundie says something offensive under his breath, but before he can react someone grabs his arm: Magnus. 

“Back so soon?” he purrs under his breath as Alec makes a half-hearted protest. He steers Alec back the way he came, bypassing the front entrance for a cramped little room outlined in red electrical tape. Mundies part as they walk by, suddenly interested in anything but Alec and Magnus. He lowers Alec into a chair and conjures up a glass of water, remaining blissfully silent. 

Alec waits a minute, looking up when his legs finally stop shaking. He looks just past Magnus, unwilling to decipher whatever he’ll find in those strange cat eyes. 

“Valentine’s coming,” he says. He doesn’t have the energy for sugarcoating or explanations. Magnus is in trouble, and Alec owes him a warning. 

After all, if Magnus gets caught it’ll be his fault. 

Magnus’s intake of breath is subtle, but unmistakable. “You?” 

“Of course not.” He meets Magnus’s eyes, scowling when he realizes that this was the warlock’s plan the whole time. “You knew that.” 

“Just keeping you on your toes.” He grins and then falls into a chair across from Alec’s, his long legs dangling over the sagging arm. He shrugs slowly, but his eyes are still trained on Alec, vigilant. “So Valentine is coming.” 

Alec is almost certain that the nonchalance is feigned, but it’s still impressive. If he were in Magnus’s shoes, he’d already be gone. 

“He knows that you – well, he knows that someone is here.” He continues, his tone accusatory, “You must have known that someone would notice, using that much magic.” 

Magnus raises an eyebrow, and even though his body can barely remain upright, it still manages to react to that small gesture. He’s betrayed by his internal chemistry. 

“And yet,” Magnus says. He lifts up his nails and examines them under the dull light. His hands are speckled red; Alec’s blood tells a story across his fingers. 

“You should leave town,” Alec says. Magnus may act like being number one on Valentine’s hit list is no more concerning than the bits of chewed gum that litter the floor, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“Are you saying this because you’re worried about me, or because you’re worried you want me?” 

Leave it to Magnus to try to flirt with him when both of their lives are on the line. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?” 

For a second, Alec is sure Magnus wants to smile. His face twitches, but he quickly shuffles his features into a blank faced stare. “No.” 

“No one?” 

“Not in four hundred years of life.” Magnus stretches, and the flimsy outfit he’s wearing leaves very little to the imagination. 

Knowing that it’s exactly what he wants, but unable to stop himself anyway, Alec looks away quickly. “I find that very hard to believe.” 

Magnus rises from the chair, moving to stand directly in Alec’s line of sight. “And I find you very hard to resist.” 

Drained, exasperated, and too tired to try convincing Magnus to see reason, Alec stands up to leave; he’s done his duty by coming here. “Can’t you ever be serious?” he asks, voice heavy. His eyelids droop, and he stumbles over an abandoned shoe. He notices a row of coats along one wall, and realizes for the first time that this must be some sort of employee lounge. Absurdly, he hopes he doesn’t pass out on some stranger’s shoe. 

But he doesn’t pass out. Magnus’s hands settle on his shoulders, and for someone so slight, he’s able to steady Alec easily. For a second Alec is tempted to just give in for once in his damn life, and let Magnus support him. Lie him down on this floor. Bring him wherever he wants. Instead, he tries as hard as he fucking can to regain his balance. 

“Oh, Alexander,” Magnus says when Alec pulls away. “I wish you knew how serious I am.” 

“I just –” Alec pulls away and heads toward the door. “Just don’t treat Valentine like a joke, Magnus.” 

Magnus snaps a finger, and a glass of electric pink something appears in his hand. 

“By the Angel,” Alec hisses. The pink goop is hot. He stares down at it suspiciously. 

“Drink it,” Magnus says, and despite his playful banter a few minutes ago, he sounds oddly vulnerable. “You’ll feel a lot better.” 

Figuring that it can’t be any worse than the smoothie-craze Isabelle had gone on a few years ago – back before he’d ever heard the name Clary Fray, and his biggest problem was worrying that he’d pop an inappropriate boner – he downs it in one gulp. He can feel the warmth of the drink making a path down his esophagus, before settling in his chest and radiating outward. In ten seconds his body feels lighter. After half a minute, he figures he has enough energy to manage a low-intensity jog back to the Institute. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Magnus says before Alec can properly thank him. “This isn’t the first time there’s been a price on my head; I’ve become quite adept at hiding.” 

Alec nods and reaches out to open the door. But before he can pull it open, he turns back for a second. 

“Magnus do you – ”

Magnus doesn’t interrupt – for once he gives Alec the time he needs to properly formulate a question. 

“Have you ever heard of a Downworlder resistance? An alliance, between Downworlders and Shadowhunters?” 

Asking in public is dangerous – and downright stupid – but if this is going to be the last time he sees Magnus, he needs to ask, for Izzy’s sake if not his own. 

Magnus looks hesitant, and that tells Alec everything he needs to know. At the very least, Magnus has heard something.

“It’s my sister,” he says. “She’s – well, it just sounds like the kind of thing she’d be involved with, if it existed.” 

Magnus takes a step toward him, but this time Alec is strong enough to stay out of his reach. 

“I have to go,” he says, and disappears through the door before Magnus can say another word. 

\--

The trip home is quicker with Magnus’s potion boosting his energy. When he arrives, he’s not even surprised to see Marceline standing directly in front of the entrance, fighting to keep her heavy lids from shutting. 

“I wanted to make sure you go home okay,” she says, scrambling to her feet as Alec closes the door behind him. She rubs at her eyes quickly, allowing Alec a second to step in. “You look a lot better than when you left.” 

Alec shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets; he knows that none of this is Marceline’s fault, but he’s reached his sharing quota for the night. 

She walks past Alec, slowly slightly in front of him. “I’d like to meet her some day, you know.”

Shame courses through Alec. Even Marceline – one of last truly decent shadowhunters – doesn’t suspect. Could never suspect. Because what Alec does – who Alec is – goes beyond fraternizing with Downworlders. 

“There is no her,” he replies. The bitter words leave a foul taste in his mouth and burn a track down to his chest. 

“Goodnight, Alec,” Marceline says heavily before disappearing around the corner.

Alec watches her leave. Better for her to think that he’s a liar than to know the truth. 

\--

By the time Alec gets to bed the warmth has been leeched away. He’s cold enough that even a stack of blankets from the storage closet down the hall can’t keep him from shivering. 

One of the blankets is old – at least fifteen years, he’d be willing to bet – and the last time he can remember seeing at was at this indoor picnic that Isabelle had set up when they were kids. Jace had still be wary of the pair of them, and had hovered by the door, picking at a piece of splintered wood while Izzy set up intricate china that she’d pilfered from one of the cupboards their mother had expressly forbidden them from playing in. Still, their mother wasn’t there, and Izzy was always one to bend the rules. Alec could remember sitting on the edge of the blanket, rigid, not wanting to let Izzy down by leaving, but terrified that their mother was going to catch them. 

It’s funny, he can’t remember now how the food tasted – or even what they had eaten – but he can remember exactly how he felt, for the whole hour that they’d sat there, tempting fate. He can remember exactly how Izzy looked as she’d snuck back to the cabinet with the fine china. He can remember Jace rolling his eyes, disgusted with both of them for playing such a childish game, but especially with Alec, for his reluctance to take any responsibility for his actions. 

It’s always easy – especially in these moments before sleep, when his whole body shakes with the force of his racing thoughts – to remember the innumerable times he’d been a coward. 

Tonight his thoughts are suffocating; they pound against his head and screech until he can barely breathe. He thinks of Izzy, fighting alongside downworlders while he slaughters them under Valentine’s command; he thinks of Magnus, dark and dangerous and tempting; and he thinks of Marceline and I’d like to meet her someday, and the all-encompassing loneliness that threatens to smother him. His chest squeezes with panic, and there’s an aching, clawing pain that stabs from behind his breastbone, screaming for release. No matter how much he gasps for air – no matter how much he takes in – it’ll never be enough. This weight will crush him before he can move. 

He scrambles along his bedside table until his fingers settle around his stele. 

Instead of a careful press to the inner thigh, tonight he cannot stop himself. He needs to carve out this pain, and it needs to happen now. He chokes on air, and tightens his grip on the small tool. Then, rubbing his left hand over the slick sheen of sweat that coats his chest, he scrapes the burning point along his sternum. 

It burns and burns and burns until he can finally breathe.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! I know this has been far, far too long. I know I always say that my life is busy (it always is, I swear!), but this time I am COMMITTED to finishing this fic. It's completely plotted, there are half scenes written, and I am very motivated. It's my hiatus-project. I really hope that there are some of you still around who'd like to read. I am sorry for the delay, but hope that you'll trust me to get things finished up this time around!

Alec and Marceline spend the next few days cataloguing every detail she can remember about Izzy – or at least the person Valentine is masquerading as Izzy. They’re careful about their planning; not a single note is logged into the Institute’s database – they’re copied instead into Alec’s ancient but meticulously labeled notebook. Alec dutifully transcribes their most recent entry – “Personally Witnessed Sightings” – and flips back to mark the addition in their table of contents.

“Has anyone ever told you you’d make an excellent Silent Brother?”

Marceline, whose tutors at the Academy must still rue the day she first set foot in their classrooms, has been making those sorts of helpful comments for the entire evening. Thankfully Alec has found that even without the constant exposure he got in his younger years, he remains nothing short of adept at tuning out annoying interruptions.

“I’m serious,” she continues, suspended from the rafters by a bungee cord and lazily turning in circles. She ticks off her points on her fingers as she talks. “Brooding, taciturn, excellent gothic penmanship.”

“Now that you mention it," Alec says, glaring at her as she sweeps just past his head, "these days living in seclusion sounds like a well-deserved break.” He springs up without any warning and tugs quickly at the cord, flipping Marceline off balance. He smiles as she squawks and attempts to right herself – one of the few genuine smiles he’s had in this Institute in recent memory – but is quick to turn so that she doesn’t catch a glimpse.

He knows better – or at least, he _should_ know better – than to let himself get attached; his lessons in getting close to other Shadowhunters have been brutally effective. Other than his mother, there’s not a single Shadowhunter left who cares about him, and he’s certain that’s not a coincidence. Marceline can accuse him of being morose or irritable as much as she likes, but he knows that it’s only a matter of time before her own unerring optimism wears thin – their world, more now than ever in history, isn’t made for nurturing hope or happiness.

“Where are we going?” Marceline flips quickly, slipping out of her straps as she lands on the balls of her feet, accomplishing the task in one fluid motion. It’s an impressive dismount, and he knows he should tell her as much. Instead, he turns and heads toward the door without a word.

Her blonde ponytail swings in a graceful arc as she hurries after him. “Alec, wait!”

Though he doesn’t slow, Marceline catches up before he makes it halfway down the hall.

“ _We_ are not going anywhere,” Alec says as she falls into step beside him. She’s settled in far too quickly, and the realization rubs at him. He’s been so starved for company that he’s forgotten himself. He cuts through a side door without a word, but Marceline, who has finally learned her way around, keeps up easily. She quiets as they reach their destination, walking respectfully behind Alec with her mouth firmly shut, and somehow this just spurs his anger. He breaks away, treading the last few feet on his own.

Near the end of the hall, tucked half-hidden in the corner, is a small closet. It’s been long since cleaned out – it used to house a small collection of Max’s treasured books and toys – and is one of the only areas of the Institute that no one dares set foot.

Pushing away the bright burst of pain that always accompanies this part of the journey, Alec opens the closet door and searches for the loose board near the back. Once it’s up he slips the plastic-wrapped notebook into the crevice and then turns around.

Used to this routine by now, Marceline refrains from speaking until they get back to the center block.

“Alec?” Her voice, when she finally feels comfortable to speak up, is soft, gentle. She knows his story – at least, the version that everyone in Alicante knows – and though he hasn’t told her exactly what’s upsetting about the seemingly innocuous hallway, she’s perceptive enough to know not to push. She really would have been a good match for him, if circumstances were different. He’s not sure if he hates his father more or less for this realization. “If you need to talk – ”

The offer is genuine - Alec knows this. He also knows that if he starts talking, he won't stop. His thoughts have long since passed a breaking point; any attempt at relieving the pressure, and he would release a deluge. And so he pushes by, ensuring that his eyes stay locked straight ahead as she falls to the side. _It’s better this way_ , he tells himself as he hears her heavy sigh and the careful fall of her footsteps as she turns to walk away. The quicker she accepts that he’s got nothing to offer – even as a friend, for whatever that word’s worth by now – the quicker she can move on with her life.

“What I need is to be alone,” he replies just before disappearing from sight.

Once he’s sure that Marceline won't follow, he cuts back across the Institute, heading for the often-ignored Eastern exit. And just as he has for the past several nights, he cuts across the Eastern wing and up a set of stairs to the second story guest room. From a drawer beside the unmade bed he pulls a set of daggers – unmarked and untraceable. After slipping one under each of the cuffs that circle his wrists, he takes the only remaining weapon – a seraph blade – and straps it across his back. Then, propping open the room’s solitary window – whose censors have conveniently been down for the better part of a week now – he leaps onto the street below and disappears into the darkness.

\--

By now, Alec has stopped telling himself that he’s never coming back - has stopped trying to convince himself that thisis the last time he'll give in. He knows now that no amount of shame will turn him away, and understands that lying to himself is a wasted effort. Before Magnus Bane this compulsion had picked at him slowly, cutting into his resolve until he ached for some sort of release, but now – now that he’s learned what it’s like to be touched by the warlock – he _burns_ , hot and desperate. He thanks the Angels, for all that they still care, that he has thoughts of Izzy to distract him throughout the day; without that, he knows he would be utterly consumed.

The path to the club, long familiar when Magnus was nothing more than a pair of golden eyes in the darkness, now seems to control him; from the moment he steps off the subway and onto the worn-down sidewalk, his body is no longer his own. He moves like someone possessed – would probably think that he was, if not for the omnipresent sense of shame that he wears like a second suit of armour. It remains his constant companion, soaked into his skin, a constant reminder of everything he risks by coming here. And still, despite the fact that he knows that discovery means death and despite the fact that he knows that his actions tonight will keep him up for hours once he arrives back at the Institute, shivering and cold and alone, he cannot stay away from Magnus Bane.

He brushes past the mundane at the entrance, barely giving him a second glance. Gone is any attempt at smiling or intimidation and gone is any guilt about paying cover; Alec’s soul has greater things to atone for than this dumpster’s ten-dollar deficit. Unlike the countless times he’s been here before, he doesn’t pause to survey the building; he knows, without a doubt, that if Magnus is here it must be secure. He also doesn’t bother to stop and assess any prospects or gauge who might be interested; there’s only one person here who can give him what his body craves.

He goes to him without hesitation, parting the crowd with nothing more than a pointed glance and slowing for no one. Last night, the one mundane in the entire club who was stupid enough not to recognize the inherent danger of approaching him had made an excellent lesson for all those who may have followed after, and his path to Magnus is unencumbered.

\--

Every night this week Alec had made sure to tell Magnus that _this was the last time_  - that he wasn't coming back - and every night he's returned to find Magnus _otherwise occupied._  He's pretty sure that Magnus hasn't believed that threat since the first time he heard it, and so Alec can only assume that he enjoys making him work for any scrap of attention. Tonight Magnus’s choice is a tall, lean mundane, dressed in clothes so tight they could be glamoured on, with a shock of purple hair that falls artfully into his angular face. He’s staring at Magnus with open admiration, and Alec is torn between absolute empathy and a harsh, possessive jealousy born from every evil impulse he’s tried so hard to repress. Thankfully, he’s had a lifetime of keeping unwarranted and unwanted emotions under tight control, and doesn't break stride for a second.

As Alec approaches, Magnus reaches out to run a single finger down the mundane’s cheek. The man shudders under the touch, flushing and murmuring something inaudible that makes the warlock smile, and Alec reminds himself that if he gives into his base impulses, his life is as good as forfeit. Even if Valentine cares nothing for the lives of mundanes, he does care about maintaining the Shadowhunter line – and, most importantly, their secrecy. Still, in that brief, blinking instant, where Alec watches the mundane melt into Magnus’s touch, facing a death sentence seems like an acceptable outcome.

“You’ve got five seconds to get out of here,” he interrupts without warning, vindicated when Magnus withdraws his hand immediately. He brushes against the mundane as he takes the seat next to Magnus, going as far as to push his boots forward until they're resting against the mundane's skinny legs. He knows it wouldn't take much more than a flick of his ankle to break the delicate bones. “My next request will be less polite.”

But instead of backing down, the mundane - who’s either new to this bar or has some sort of death wish - just sidles up to Magnus, looking up at him through lashes thick with mascara, and says, “you don’t want me to leave, do you?”

Alec feels a rush of second-hand embarrassment, wondering, if he had been born to another world, if this could have been him.

If Magnus feels the same sympathy, it doesn’t show. “I’m sure there are lots of men in here who would be happy to take you home tonight,” he says, lazily twisting the olive in his martini. “Unfortunately I won’t be one of them.” He clicks his finger swiftly, turning to look at Alec as the mundane walks away quietly, eyes glazed and without a second glance back.

Alec struggles to maintain his focus when Magnus turns the full power of his golden eyes on him.

“I’m starting to think you’re lying to me for sport,” he says, taking a quick sip of his drink. “I know the Institute is dreary these days, but do you have to resort to bullying mundanes for fun?" He raises an eyebrow, and then, smirking, leans back into his seat. "If you’d only let me, I could give you a much healthier outlet.”

He then shifts slightly, brushing his hands along the arm of his chair. Though he knows what's coming, Alec barely has time to steel himself against it; the pulse of magic, white-hot and snaking up the base of his spine, blooms quickly into a delicious heat that spreads across his abdomen, before culminating in a satisfying burst of pleasure. It’s only a taste of what he knows Magnus can do – what he has been doing – but it’s enough to remind Alec what he's been missing.

Unwilling to give in, Alec just crosses his arms over his chest. “I think you do enough as it is. Now, are we going to stand here all night or - ?”

Magnus snaps a finger again, and the buzz of conversation and pounding of the music fades away. The room shimmers until it’s just the two of them, standing in front of an empty bar. He then slips out of his chair and moves forward, wrapping one of his hands around Alec’s arm. Heat blossoms in the wake of his skin, and Alec struggles to keep from rocketing forward. “So sure of yourself, kitten.”

He laughs as Alec’s eyes narrow, and as quickly as it came, the heat of his touch is gone. He saunters off toward their usual spot, knowing that Alec won't be far behind. Once Alec starts to follow he turns around, pausing to address the Shadowhunter once more. “I’m serious, you know. There’s so much I could show you if we weren’t…limited by our circumstances. ”

Alec, whose skin is starting to itch, stretched too tight over a body that seems to betray him at every turn, rocks on the balls of his feet and tries not to let his impatience show. He doesn’t know why Magnus has to make such a  _production_ of everything. Even this frivolous use of magic to tune out the noise – Alec _hates_ it. It’s dangerous and pointless and unfair. He wants the mundanes to look – _needs_ them to see what he’s doing. What he keeps coming back to do. The weight of recognition is the only thing he has to remind him of everything he stands to lose. He can't afford to forget that this isn't normal – he can't afford to let himself believe that this is something he can ever have. 

“I haven't known you very long, but one thing I doknow is that you're  _never_ serious, Magnus.”

Magnus’s hands twitch, leaving the faintest shadow of blue flame in their wake.

“Now that’s just hurtful,” he says. “Throwing around unfounded accusations.” He moves slowly toward Alec, delighting in the sudden change in his demeanour. He reaches out and runs a finger along Alec's face - a direct replication of what he'd done only minutes before with the mundane. “Especially when you haven’t given me a chance to prove how serious I can be.”

Alec swallows and the air between them grows heavier. Magnus’s power has its own gravitational pull, and he’s stuck in a helpless orbit, unwilling and unable to change course.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” Magnus pulls his hand sharply toward the ground, and the bar transforms into a sleek and well-decorated loft, furnished with a massive bed that’s draped with an expansive - and expensive, no doubt - collection of pillows and blankets. It looks safe and comforting and Alec can’t believe that Magnus would ever show it to him.

Unlike Alec’s sparsely decorated space at the Institute, it’s easy to tell that Magnus’s bedroom is a haven. It’s warm and inviting and everything that Alec knows he can never have. He wonders if Magnus understands that this is torture – being forced to look, imagining himself on that bed, spread out and pliable, willing to shame himself in any number of ways if it meant experiencing even a fraction of what Magnus has to offer. What’s even easier – and more terrifying by half – is being able to imagine Magnus, stripped down and soft, nestled between the blankets with Alec close beside him.

The yearnings of his imagination are easy enough to contemplate, but they cannot – and will not – become reality. Tender smiles and soft touches were not meant for someone like him. That’s not what this thing between them is – nor will it ever be.

“No.” Alec turns away from Magnus, cold and unyielding. He brushes through the glamour briskly, heading for the bathroom and not bothering to give Magnus a backward glance. “Now, are you coming or not? We've already wasted enough time.”

Magnus snaps his fingers and the club repopulates in a rush of sound and colour. As the beat pulses and he begins to feel the weight of the eyes around him, Alec's frayed nerves begin to calm. The image of Magnus's room begins to fade from his mind, replaced instead by tide of gyrating bodies, and Alec breathes a little easier. Then he reaches out for Magnus's hand, tugging him forward with a harsh disregard that doesn't align with the frantic thudding of his heart, reminding himself that this a transaction, and should never be thought of as anything more. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the build is slow. But hey, this is a dark place - literally and figuratively - and I think that means it's best not to rush. More plotty things will happen in the next chapter (and from now on, actually), but if you've read anything else I've written, you'll know I'm nothing if not focused on character development ;) I really hope you enjoyed! Please, let me know if you're still out there!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for any typos. It's really late and I wanted to get it out, as I won't have much time to do anything tomorrow! Enjoy :)

Despite the late hour when he left Magnus the night before, Alec is up again with the sun. He spends the morning fastidiously cleaning his room, scouring the bathroom floors until his arms ache with the exertion. He doesn’t leave the confines of his own four walls until the morning has passed, knowing that he won’t find any company. Marceline, who would gladly sleep until three in the afternoon if left to her own devices, meanders into the kitchen at lunch time, bleary-eyed and desperate for coffee. What must it be like, Alec wonders, staring at her with open envy, to have lived a life absent the sort of trauma that rips you unceremoniously from sleep, terrified and alert, sure that the day will bring with it nothing but further pain?

Still feeling guilty for having snapped at her the night before, he urges her to stay seated while he prepares her a cup of coffee. As he pours in the milk and stirs in the two heaping spoonfuls of sugar she’s requested, he finds himself wondering how a certain Warlock takes his coffee – and what it might be like to stand in a brighter kitchen than this one, relaxed and content, while Magnus sits beside him, sleepy-eyed and stunning. It’s a dangerous thought, and one Alec should know better than to have. For some, a future like that might be possible, but never for him. For him, the thought alone could mean being denounced and deruned.

“Ahhh, you’re the best.” Marceline’s voice cracks as she speaks for what is clearly the first time that morning. She cups her coffee between her hands and inhales deeply before taking her first sip. They sit in silence for a minute or two before Maryse enters the kitchen, interrupting the relative peace.

“Alec,” she says briskly, not even glancing in Marceline’s direction. “You’re needed in the Communications Centre.” She looks even more tired than Alec – muscles pulled taut on a face that’s significantly more lined than it had been even a year before.

“The Communications Centre?” Alec rises to his feet warily – the list of people who could be contact him is small – and no one on it particularly desirable.

“It’s your father,” Maryse says tightly, knowing exactly what’s on her son’s mind. “He has news from Idris.”

\--

Marceline doesn’t have time to do much more than send him a sympathetic glance over his coffee cup before Alec leaves the kitchen. Maryse, clearly having had her quota of her ex-husband for the morning, stalks off in the opposite direction, not even taking the time to prepare Alec for what’s to come. It’s not that he blames her – he wishes the same option were available to him – but the walk to face his father seems even more unbearable alone.

When he arrives he’s immediately greeted by his father’s face, which takes up a good eighty percent of the main computer screen. Robert is alone – as he always is, probably because he knows how Alec would react otherwise – and deeply immersed in a stack of reports that are sitting on his familiar desk. As always, he’s ensured that a photo of his children – an old one, when there were still four of them – is within view of the camera. A familiar, bubbling hatred rises in Alec, and he has to sink his nails into his palms to keep from lashing out. There have been at least three of these phone calls over the course of the year, and every time he’s newly astonished by his father’s gall; the fact that Robert can sit there, pretending to care for his family after everything that’s happened is almost enough to make Alec turn on his heel and walk straight back in the other direction. In the past, it had been concern for Izzy that had made him stay – now, a burgeoning concern for another keeps him rooted to the spot.

He steps up to the screen, standing silently until his father finally realizes he’s there.

“Alec!” He fiddles with the papers on his desk, rearranging them fruitlessly several times before finally deciding that they’re okay. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Alec answers, clasping his hands behind his back. He stands, ramrod straight, waiting for further questions. He’s made a habit out of offering up as little as possible, and it gives him a satisfying sense of vindication to watch his father struggle.

As Robert stares for a second, clearly searching for something to say, Alec’s sense of cruel triumph breaks way to the same deep disappointment he feels whenever the two of them are forced to share a space. It’s obvious, twenty seconds into any interaction that Robert doesn’t know how to talk to Alec. And he doesn’t know how to talk to him because he doesn’t know him. Alec would like to blame that on the war or the distance or the length of time between their sparsely worded conversations, but he knows that’s simply not true.

Alec knows that he’ll likely never have kids of his own – probably won’t live to be old enough, even if that future was a possibility – but if he did, he would make sure to know them. Even if they had nothing in common, he would make a point to understand their every hobby and passion. He would be sure to know what they were scared of and what woke them from sleep. He would ensure that if they were harboring something monumental – something too terrifying to consider, let alone speak aloud – that they could count on him to be there to listen. He would be _present_ , in a way that neither of his parents had been for him.

Alec shifts slightly, bringing his arms around to the front, splaying his hands wide open on the desk as if poised for action. “Mother said you had news from Idris.”

Robert looks slightly taken aback – almost as if he’s forgotten the reason for the call, despite being the one who placed it.

“Yes,” he says finally, needlessly shuffling his papers once again. “It’s been noted that there have been unusually high unsanctioned spikes of demonic energy in New York over the past few weeks. Valentine has reason to believe that Magnus Bane may be back in the city.”

“Magnus Bane?” Alec strives to stay calm, clamping down the rush of guilt that threatens to break his façade. He knows that the unsanctioned magic in question was definitely the massive outpouring Magnus had expended healing him. After more than a year of hiding successfully Magnus was in trouble, and as with most things that have gone wrong in his life, it’s entirely Alec’s fault. His chest tightens as he considers the possibility of Valentine showing up at the Institute, armed with his own indentured Warlocks, intent on tracking Magnus down.

Still, the upside to having so many secrets is that it becomes second nature to hide your true feelings. Alec stands, impassive as stone, as his father details a plan for how to proceed with this “supernatural threat”. He responds in the clipped sentences his father has come to expect, his steadily rising sense of panic easily converted into barely-restrained hostility.

Once the details have been hashed out – basically, Alec is to watch and wait, reporting any and all episodes of demonic energy directly to Robert until Valentine is free from his most recent mission – Robert takes a moment to survey his son.

“So,” he says, folding his hands in front of his face, still unable to look his son directly in the eye.

It says something, the overwhelming pulse of hatred Alec feels as a result of that simple conjunction.

“How’s Marceline settling into the Institute?” Alec doesn’t have to look at the screen to hear the hope in his father’s voice. There have been times – once, when he was thirteen and had been caught up in watching Jace practice, enraptured and ashamed, and again, at sixteen, when he’d been too lost in the interplay of tight pants straining over firm muscles to fully listen to what his father was trying to tell him – when he thought that his parents might _know_. Or, at least if they didn’t know, that they might suspect. Right now, Alec’s almost sure of it. He can sense his father’s judgment – his disappointment – in both his purposefully downcast gaze and his thinly disguised hope.

“She’s doing fine.” He spits the words as though they’re venom, clenching his jaw as they tumble out, leaving room for nothing more than the thin trickle of blood that bursts from the point where his teeth have cracked the delicate skin of his lip. He swipes at his mouth, blood and saliva pooling behind his molars so quickly he feels it may choke him.

Robert opens his mouth – no doubt to emit another asinine comment – but Alec can’t stand to hear another syllable. He turns on his heel and leaves, swallowing down the nauseating mixture of fluids, feeling more like he’s going to vomit with every step. He walks with long, purposeful steps, eyes fastened on the hallway ahead of him, and doesn’t stop until he reaches his room, ripping the door open with hands that are just starting to tremble. He makes it over the threshold and collapses with his back to the weathered wood, his boots digging into familiar grooves in the poorly maintained floor. He sits there, allowing himself just a few minutes to breathe. Assuring himself that for that small window of time, he won’t be missed. He sits there, gulping in the stale air of his bedroom, replaying the conversation in his mind. Memorizing the furrow of his father’s brow as he’d mentioned Marceline. Reliving the icy shock of fear as his father spoke Magnus’s name. Attempting to slow the cascading spiral of his thoughts. Wishing, as always, that it were possible to have just a moment of peace.

\--

He successfully evades any contact with other Shadowhunters for the rest of the afternoon. Avoiding the practice room, the weapons room, and the kitchen, he spends his day skulking around the third floor, reading a demonology textbook and trying to calm his racing thoughts. He’s just started to flip through a section on shielding demonic auras – not because he thinks he can _help_  Magnus, but rather so that he can channel his anxiety into something productive – when Marceline finally tracks him down.

“Hey.” Her voice is subdued and she walks in slowly, as if Alec is a small animal, poised to startle. “I guess it didn’t go well?”

“Went exactly as expected.” Alec slams the book shut, coughing at the fine spray of dust that rises up. He pushes the book carefully into the corner of the desk and stretches, reveling in the satisfying pop of his aching muscles.

“Your mother sent me to get you.” There’s an ongoing hesitancy to her movements, which is likely the result of bearing the brunt of Alec’s previous frustrations. He knows he should apologize – it would have been an automatic response, at one time – but now he’s not really sure of the point. With apologies came the expectation of changed behavior, and he knows it won’t be long before he fucks up again.

“What’s going on?” He grabs his stele, which has sat, tempting but unused, on the desk for the duration of the afternoon. He slips it into his pocket, comforted by its outline against his hip.

“Demons,” Marceline answers, some life finally bleeding into her response. “She wants us to go deal with them.”

\--

It doesn’t take long for Alec and Marceline to get ready. They suit up in silence, and there’s a moment of awkwardness when Marceline shifts her ponytail so that Alec can apply her agility rune, but it’s quickly forgotten. The demons, Marceline explains once they’re in the weapons room, ready to arm themselves, are a pack of Raveners that have been causing some disturbances uptown. There’s an injured mundane who has already been secreted off for treatment, but no further information.

They take the subway uptown, cramming themselves in the back so that they don’t have to go through the annoyance of avoiding the half-drunk mundanes that fill the other cars. Marceline maintains her silence for longer than Alec thought possible – they make it four entire stops before she can no longer stand to stay quiet.

She makes a bit of a production of it, stopping and starting several sentences before slumping back against the seats with a great sigh. She’s full of frenetic energy, nearly quivering against the cracked leather seats, and Alec tries to remember the last time he cared enough about anything to be that animated.

“So what’s our strategy?” she finally blurts out, rubbing her fingers into her temples. Her foot pounds a steady beat against the filthy subway floor and she glances up at him through the fringe of her bangs with a sheepish smile. “I get that you probably just want to brood some more, but I seriously need to talk about something or I’m going to lose it.”

Biting back the urge to smile, Alec launches latches onto the topic – which is vastly preferable to discussing anything to do with either the Institute or his parents – like a lifeline, and spends the entirety of the twenty-minute ride listing contingency plans for any eventuality.

Thankfully, by the time they arrive at the site of the attack – an abandoned warehouse, graffiti-ridden and neglected on the outside, garbage-ridden and foul on the inside, there are no mundanes in sight. Aside from the occasional hurtling squeal of the subway, there’s absolute silence. The warehouse, which is several stories of purposeful clutter, derelict and clearly avoided by any who pass by, is the perfect place for a pack of demons to hide. There’s no clue to who may have summoned them – no strange runes or pentagrams or signs of any human life whatsoever, really – and the half-rotted bookshelves and stacked debris make for difficult surveillance.

Activating his night vision rune, he holds up a hand and waves Marceline toward a pile of warped and rusted metal. “Cover me,” he mouths, darting from his own place behind a towering mound of broken concrete and into the next room. Once he’s sure that it’s all clear he motions for Marceline to come forward. She follows silently as a wraith, as confident as someone with twice her field experience. She anticipates his moves in advance and follows him without hesitation – for the first time in a long time, Alec is on the field with someone he trusts. It makes a world of difference, not to have to worry about danger coming from his own team; he feels relaxed in a way that he hasn’t since he had Jace and Izzy by his side.

As they pass into the next room, they’re greeted by a soft scuffling noise, which is followed by a series of guttural clicks and hisses. Marceline flinches – a small bowing of her shoulders that Alec pretends he didn’t notice – and then turns to Alec for advice. He motions for her to cross the room, and pats at his thighs. She nods, withdrawing her throwing daggers, and scurries up a half-collapsed beam, poised at the top like a feral cat, body bent forward and ready to attack.

Alec, who sees the demons – still in their human form, licking blood from their fingers as they walk in stilted, lock-kneed steps – enter from across the room, wastes no time in withdrawing his seraph blades. Dual-wielding, he jumps onto the scene, taking out two of the demons before Marceline even gets a chance to throw. There are a series of sharp whirring noises, and as Marceline’s knives hold true, he watches three more demons drop.

By the time the rest have regroup, drawing back into tight formation to try to assess the unexpected threat, Marceline is on the ground, a pair of deadly sai in her hands. She stands, back against Alec’s, panting as she assesses the situation.

“Stay calm,” Alec says lowly, trying to infuse as much encouragement as he can into the statement. He waits, watching the demons for any sign of resistance. One of them flicks its eyes toward the ceiling, and Alec just catches the falling outline of another Ravener – in its demon form, this time – as it drops from a deep gouge in the floor above. He knocks Marceline out of the way and flings his body forward, tucking into a tight roll and coming up with a deadly swipe at the transformed demon’s gaping maw. His sword severs the demon’s head, and a sac of venom explodes from its throat. It erodes through the concrete floor with ease.

“Watch for the sacs!”

“Right.” Marceline grunts, ending a pair of demons with a series of impressively executed jabs, and deftly evades the newly-created obstacle. She flies through the air like a dancer, as fierce and unpredictable as death itself, and Alec has no choice but to be impressed. Acknowledging that she can handle things on her own, Alec turns to finish off the few demons that are trying to run from the room. Once he’s finished, he turns back and finds Marceline driving a solitary sai up through the roof of her final opponent’s mouth.

Ripping the weapon back toward her with a satisfied grunt, she finally looks up and catches Alec’s eye. Just as her face begins to light up, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth, Alec catches a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

He wants to yell – to warn Marceline to get her weapons back up in the air – but there’s not enough time. She’s so happy – so flushed and proud from her success – that she doesn’t recognize that anything’s wrong until it’s too late.

 _Idiot_ , Alec thinks as he flings himself toward her. _You should have known that she would let her guard down. Think about the shit you pulled on your first mission – the shit that Izzy and Jace pulled._

The seconds slow as Alec hurtles toward Marceline, and when he knocks into her the impact blows the air straight from his chest. He gasps, lungs sucking for oxygen that’s suddenly unavailable, and he has just enough foresight to try to shield Marceline’s head from the floor. The second impact is even more jarring than the first, and Alec feels the reverberation through his entire body. Still, he flips onto his side as quickly as he can, swinging his Seraph blade as he moves. Unfortunately, he misjudges, and the lone Ravener evades the attack easily. He gropes for his other sword, the combination of shock and adrenaline keeping him from recognizing that he’s completely shattered the bones in his left hand.

The demon lunges, and Alec instinctually raises his forearm – a reflexive action, born of a lifetime of blocking attacks. And while he’s successful – the impulsive action costs him. The demons teeth – jagged and dripping with the same poison that’s currently eating a hole through the cement floor, puncture straight through the delicate skin.

He gasps – from shock as much as the pain – and his traitorous heart pumps wildly, expediting the flow of poison throughout his body. Marceline, stumbling to her feet with a groan, picks up the abandoned Seraph blade and ends the Ravener with a quick swipe.

Alec looks up at her, vision swimming. Relief, sharp and giddy, rises up as he watches her square her feet and look around for any other stragglers. He tries to smile as she stays upright, fighting through the pain to make sure that her job is done well.

So much for not getting attached to any other Shadowhunters.

 _At least_ , he thinks as darkness starts to creep in from his peripheral vision, compressing the warehouse into nothing more than a thin, blurry strip of light, _you can avoid the mistakes you made with Izzy and Jace this time. It’s impossible to let someone down if you’re dead._

There’s a muffled noise above him and a sudden weight against his side, but his eyes are too heavy to try to discern what either of them could be. A spark of pain, bright and hot, pulls at his chest, trying to tether him to the world, but he pushes it away. It fizzles out as quickly as it came, taking with it any residual light or sound, and Alec succumbs completely to quiet comfort of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'm really into "It's Only Magic" and I have a HUGE exam coming up, but I'm trying to write as quickly as possible. I really hope that everyone who has been waiting enjoyed this chapter. I'm really going to try to make the updates happen at least every two weeks - thoughts are always appreciate : ) You're the best! 
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Feel free to join me on tumblr ('misadventurousmongooses') as I often will post little snippets there as I go along.


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